Who's Afraid of Stephen Sondheim?
by Oxymoronic Alliteration
Summary: A collection of one-shots, each inspired by a Sondheim song. A little slash, a little het, a little gen, a lot of Newsies and a lot of Sondheim.
1. Another Hundred People

**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to Disney and the song belongs to Stephen Sondheim.

* * *

_It's a city of strangers; some come to work, some to play. A city of strangers; some come to stare, some to stay. "_Another Hundred People_"_ **Company**

Snitch took the penny from the business man, handing over a paper to him and thanking him, hiding his disappointment that there was no tip (he was sure the man was good for more than one cent). It was only a little after 10:00am and his initial stack of forty papers had decreased to twelve. His feet were beginning to blister in his boots and his right arm was slightly cramped from holding his stack for the past few hours. The July heat had him soaked in sweat, beads of it trickling down the sides of his face. His stomach was grumbling with anticipation of the lunch he would have soon, but he figured he had time to take a break before he finished selling for that morning.

He turned to head over to a nearby bench when a familiar face caught his eye. Skittery was sitting on the stoop of a run-down apartment building, feet flat on the ground, elbows resting on his knees. His face rested atop the knuckles of his hands and his eyes seemed to be watching the mass of people who were going about the street, though he didn't seemed focused on any one person. Every so often his eyes looked down to the right, not focusing on anything but just gazing. They seemed so sad, so distraught.

Snitch made his way over to where his friend sat and stood next to him for a few seconds. He looked out at the crowd, not sure what he was supposed to be seeing. It was the same sight he saw day in and day out: merchants sweeping the sidewalks in front of their stores, mothers with whining children struggling to get their shopping done, children who were skipping school playing in the filthy streets, business men walking through the throngs of people to get to work.

"Do you ever feel so alone?" Skittery's voice pulled him from his trance. He looked down. Skittery was still looking out at the people, but he continued to speak to Snitch. "I sometimes think New York is the loneliest city a guy can live in."

Snitch laughed as he sat down. "What, are you crazy, Skitts?" When Skittery didn't respond, Snitch looked back out to the streets. "How can you say this is a lonely city when there are hundreds of people standing right there in front of you?"

Skittery shook his head. "Just because you got someone standing nearby doesn't mean you ain't alone," he said. "What good is having that person there if they don't even speak to you or seem to notice that you exist?"

Snitch didn't know how to answer him. He looked back at the streets. He noticed people walk by each other without even so much as a glance or a nod. Merchants who were sweeping out their stores paid no heed to the young children sitting right outside the door, dust being swept onto their clothing. Business men didn't even glance up from their morning papers when a woman nearby dropped the bundle of apples and oranges that had been in her arms.

"You know," Skittery went on, "I read something in the paper a month or so ago that said New York is the fastest growing city in American right now. Every day, they said, hundreds of people come in on the train from down south or out west. Even more immigrants arrive on their ships. Kind of makes me wonder where they're stuffing them all."

"Well, I guess they're stuffing the boys in the lodging house," Snitch said in a half-hearted attempt at a joke. Neither Skittery's expression nor his eyes changed. "Look, Skittery, you've been living here for your entire life, ain't you? I'd think that by now you'd know that most of the people here don't waste time caring about no one but themselves." Snitch leaned back, resting his elbows on the step behind him. "I don't know…maybe it _is _a lonely city."

"There's this guy, he's the landlord of this building," Skittery explained, nodding his head to the building behind them. "For the past…I don't know…two years I guess…yeah, the past two years I've come here every day at around 8:30 or so. He comes out to get a paper from me. He's practically a regular customer. I mean, it's not as though we talk or nothing, maybe just a 'hello,' but it's always me who brings the old guy his paper.

"So today I come here at the same time and I wait for him to see me and come out. I see him open the door with his broom and shove dirt out from the front room. I wave to him when he looks up. He squints his eyes at me, this real sour expression on his face. He says to me 'Run along kid, I got no time to deal with kids today unless you looking a rent out a room.' I tell him that I was here to give him his paper and he tells me he already bought his today and he didn't need more than one to know the world was in rotten shape." Skittery cut off for a moment. Snitch took it as the end of his story.

"So the guy already bought his paper. Not that big of a deal, Skitts. I mean, it happens to everyone."

"It's not just that," Skittery interjected. "I told him that I always brought him his paper, that I had bringing him his paper for the past two years. He looked up at me and said that he didn't have time to notice which rotten kid it was handing him the paper for the day." Skittery once again leaned forward, dropping his chin on to his knuckles. "It's just you'd think after two years you'd start to recognize a person, even just some dumb newsie. I wasn't even a face to him, just a blob handing him his paper."

Snitch threw an arm around his friend's shoulders. "Come on, Skitts, don't get so glum on me today. Who cares what one guy says? He ain't no big deal. He's probably just sour cause his job don't have the freedom that being a newsboy does."

Skittery snorted, a small smile playing across his lips. "I don't think I'd call sometimes sleeping on the streets much of a freedom, Snitch." The small smile disappeared, his face again gloomy. "It ain't just that though."

"What else did the guy do?"

"Nah, not him," Skittery said, taking his cap off and fanning himself with it. "There's this other guy, Mr. Watts. He owns this tiny bookshop a few streets down. Well, I guess I should say _owned_," Skittery added. "He was a regular, too, only he always recognized me. I'd walk down there and he'd invite me in while he got money for the paper. Sometimes he would offer me a glass of water and sometimes even a piece of toast he hadn't finished that morning." Skittery was grinning now. "The best part is that he almost always gave me a nickel, telling me to keep the change. I felt bad sometimes taking it cause I know he wasn't much better off than me."

Snitch was silent for a moment. "So…did he die?" he asked, not sure how to ask it any other way.

Much to his relief, Skittery shook his head. "Nah, he didn't die. At least when I saw him last week he wasn't dead. He was closing up the store, going out to Pennsylvania. He's got a daughter there or something and he's going to move in with her. He said it's cheaper out in Pennsylvania." Skittery looked down, his face red. "I guess giving handouts to newsboys starts to cut into your profits after a while."

"Don't worry, Skitts," Snitch said softly, "I'm sure there are other customers who give five cents, or at least three cents."

"It ain't the money, Snitch," Skittery snapped. "Mr. Watts was a decent guy and when I gave him his paper he didn't make me feel so alone. He actually noticed I was a person and took the time to know me. How many of _your _customers can _you_ say that for, huh?"

Snitch was speechless by this outburst. "Sorry, Skitts. I mean, I wasn't trying to…I just was trying cheer you up."

"Yeah, yeah," Skittery muttered, "I know. I didn't mean to get so angry." He stood up, placing his cap back on his head. His eyes continued to stare out at the streets, not sure himself what exactly he was looking for. "Well, that's New York for you, I guess," he said as Snitch stood up beside him. "One day someone is there, the next they're gone, and in their place are gonna be a hundred new strangers taking a paper from you." He began walking, Snitch right next to him. "I suppose at least one of those hundred can be a friend to you, if you're patient enough to wait and look for him in the crowded streets." He nodded a goodbye to Snitch before disappearing into the mass of strangers, secretly hoping that one of them would acknowledge him with even the simplest of glances.

* * *

**AN**: God, this fic has been a long time coming. Seriously, I've been meaning to sit down and start it for almost a year, but I kept getting sidetracked by other ideas and then I started getting into _NCIS _and…sorry, I'm sure none of you care about this.

This fic is shaping up to be eighteen chapters in all, each chapter a one-shot inspired by a song from a Sondheim show. Some of the fics will be based literally on the song; some will be a bit more abstract. Some will be slash, some will be het, some will be general. All will take place in 1899/1900.

Due to the immense amount of work Sondheim has done, I limited myself to one song per show, with one exception in which one chapter is inspired by two songs from one show (but the songs and the characters I'm writing the one-shot with just work together_ so_ well I couldn't resist). I am writing a song from almost every Sondheim show, minus the Sondheim revue shows (i.e. _Putting it Together_, _Side By Side By Sondheim_, etc.). This includes the shows he only did lyrics for (_West Side Story_, _Gypsy_, and _Do I Hear a Waltz?_) However, I am not doing a song from _The Frogs_ because quite frankly I just couldn't find a good one that could work. I also am not including songs from any of his film work (sorry, no _Dick Tracy_), though one of the songs is from a television special he wrote for.

As an ending note, anyone who gets the reference of this fic's title wins major love points from me.


	2. What's Your Rush?

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Stephen Sondheim.

* * *

_I could get such a crush. What's the matter baby, is that a blush?_ "What's Your Rush?" **Bounce**

For as long as he could remember Mush had heard stories about Five Points. The young newsboy had never so much as set foot there, but some of the older newsboys had occasionally gone to the slum area for, as they called it, "entertainment." Mush, despite being young, was not naïve. He could see traces of red lips on the collars of those newsboys, red lips that would never actually come up when, and if, the shirts were actually washed, but simply fade to a light pink. He could smell the cheap perfume that hung around those same newsboys, a smell of stale roses and jasmine. Most of all, he could see the sparkle in their eyes, the hop in their steps, and the knowing smile on their lips.

Mush knew that Five Points was considered dangerous, wild, and even down-right disgusting. One could not sell newspapers for a living and not know these things. It seemed as though every day there was a story, even just a blurb, about an incident in Five Points. The Bowery Boys had a confrontation with the Roach Guards. Some notable politician was found with a fallen woman in an opium den. The list of Five Point scandals went on.

When Mush thought of Five Points, he thought of cat houses, gang fights, and drugged up lunatics. He wanted desperately to go to the area and see the excitement for himself.

It was a warm night in late August when Mush was finally invited to go along.

* * *

Aside from Mush, the group consisted of Skittery, Bumlets, Snoddy, Pie Eater, and Racetrack. The other five boys had already been a couple of times at least. On the walk they joked with each other, inside jokes that dealt with their previous experiences in Five Points. They compared sexual conquests, discussed which women were worth the money, and talked about one woman they had dubbed "Big Bessie," who, from the way they talked about her, probably was not one of the prettier girls.

Mush lagged behind the other boys, hands in his pockets and head hanging slightly. He wished he could join in on their discussion. Every so often one of them, usually Racetrack, would turn to check on the younger boy. They would grin at him knowingly.

"Sure you're ready for this, Mush?" Race asked with a smirk. To the other newsies he said, "Not sure he's old enough, fellas. Them girls will likely eat him alive."

"Nah, just Big Bessie," Snoddy said with a snicker. "But then again, she'll eat anything."

The group, minus Mush, burst into laughter. Mush felt his cheeks redden, though he had no idea why.

* * *

The group's destination was a place on Little Water called Dizzy Lizzy's. The building was brightly lit, especially in comparison to the surrounding buildings. Men drunkenly stumbled through the doors, some supporting each other. All of them sported the red lips on their collars and all reeked of the same mixture of perfume and beer. Mush was suddenly starting to feel very out of place.

Skittery opened the door and held it for Mush. "Fresh meat first," he told Mush who hesitantly entered.

Awaiting him inside was a rush of music, color, and people. Near the back of the room was a make-shift stage, standing only three feet off the ground. On the stage was a small group of women dancing, a tattered red curtain hanging behind them. "Don't let the dancing fool you," Snoddy told him. "It's mainly to keep the bulls out. You got girls dancing you're suddenly a theater…even if the girls are pleasuring the patrons in other ways," he added, nudging Mush in the ribs.

Tables were set up around the stage, all with red and white checkered tablecloths. To the far left was a door. Mush couldn't be sure where the door led, but when he saw several woman leading men through it he had a good idea of what he could find behind the door.

Mush had spent only a minute taking in the scenery, but when he looked back his friends had merged with the crowd of patrons and he found himself standing alone. This wasn't at all what he had been expecting. Well, it _was_, but he hadn't expected to feel so unnerved by the whole experience. He found himself slowly edging backwards to the front door. When he was two or three feet away, a delicate hand fell onto his shoulder.

"What's your rush, doll?" a soft voice whispered to him. Standing there next to him was a woman who looked like she had four or five years on him. Her blonde hair was wound up into tight curls which fell just around her cheeks and chin. Her skin was pale, though Mush wasn't sure if it was natural or simply powdered into such a ghostly shade. Her face was made up with dark eye shadow, pink rogue, and fiery red lipstick. When she smiled at him, he could see the way the bottom row of teeth crushed together, pointing any which way.

This girl—_woman_—was not like any other Mush had ever met. It wasn't because her face looked like a sultry china doll or because the neckline of her dress plunged lower than he had ever seen. There was a hardness and a predatory glint in her eyes that contrasting greatly with the doe-eyed girls he was accustomed to. Her eyes slowly moved down Mush's body and he began to feel like a piece of meat being eyed by a dog. Wasn't _he_ the one who was supposed to be eyeing _her_ in this manner?

"Don't you like the joint?" she asked, her hand still on his shoulder.

"I…I, uh, suppose so?" he replied, more of a question than an answer.

She smirked. Pinching his cheek lightly, she asked, "First time, huh?" She gave his cheek a pat. "I've never seen you 'round these parts before." When Mush didn't reply, she took his hand and led him to a settee which was situated in a secluded corner. Around it was a curtain that one could untie and let hang loose if more privacy was needed. "Sit, sweetie," she instructed him, giving him a small push.

"My name is Mush, ma'am," he said politely. "Well, it ain't my real name or nothing, but it's what the others call me."

She raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Mush, huh?" She ran one of her fingers along his cheek, seeming to enjoy how uncomfortable it made him. "So, _Mush_," she said, lingering on the name, almost teasingly, "what can I do for you?"

Mush looked down to avoid her eyes. He noticed that her green gown was made of satin, but that the fabric had worn so much that it looked as though it would feel more like sandpaper or gravel if he touched it. Beside him, the woman sighed. "Doll, you're going to have to loosen up!" She reached into her boot and pulled out a cigarette and matches. She placed the cigarette loosely in her mouth, struck the match against the hard material of her boot, and lit the cigarette, closing her eyes as she inhaled.

"You haven't told me your name," he said softly, still not looking her in the face.

Her hand gently grabbed his chin and guided his face up to hers. "My name? Sweetie, you don't need my name."

"But, uh, it's only polite that I know who I…" he trailed off, not knowing how to say it.

"Who you fuck?" she supplied. His eyes widened at hearing a woman use such a word, even a woman in a brothel. "Name's Nellie," she said. "Now would you like to do this or no?"

"What's your rush?" he asked with a small smile.

She smiled in response and shrugged. "Hey, it's your money. It's by the hour, just so you know. House policy." Nellie took a long drag on her cigarette, exhaling the smoke out in a steady stream. "How old are you, anyway? You seem too old to be a virgin."

"I'm fifteen, ma'am."

"Really? Same here." At this Mush's jaw practically dropped. This woman looked like she had to be nearing twenty.

"You're fifteen?" he sputtered.

Nellie didn't seem insulted or even surprised. "I don't look it, do I?" She took another drag on her cigarette. "I guess that's what this place does to you. I think everyone here ages twice as fast as everyone everywhere else," she theorized. She took a final drag on the cigarette before putting it out in the woodwork of the settee. "You know, I think you're the cutest customer I've ever seen here," she went on.

Mush felt his cheeks heating up. He was thankful that his skin was so dark and that the two of them were in a darkened area because he was sure these two things were hiding the fact that he was blushing furiously.

Apparently it wasn't. "Is that a blush?" she cooed.

"Uh, you been here a long time?" he asked as the heat in his cheeks continued to rise.

"Here? You mean the whorehouse or you mean Five Points?"

"Either."

"Been in Five Points all my life. I've been working this place for the past two years, ever since my old man…well…he started getting sweet on me," she said. Mush sensed by the tone of her voice that she didn't want to talk about it and that she especially didn't want him to show any signs of pity or sympathy. "Anyway, sweetie, I've been here long enough to know that when something good comes along you grab it." Her arms slid around his shoulders, her body edging closer to his. "Because around here good things just don't come." At that moment the fire in her eyes dissolved and Mush saw the face of a small, vulnerable girl.

"I'm sorry," he said softly to her.

In a flash her eyes were again hard, her mouth set in determination, angry at herself for having let her guard slip, for having allowed herself to be vulnerable. "Don't." Her command was harsh and Mush knew better than to say anymore. Her arm fell from his body and she leaned back. For moments neither said anything, both caught in a staring contest, her eyes hard; his soft. "Go," she said, finally breaking the silence.

"I…I'm sorry if—"

"It's nothing you did, doll." She stood, facing him. The light of the room shone from behind her. The front of her body shrouded in darkness, but her figure was outlined in a glow of light that was almost angelic. In that moment she looked almost beautiful, almost young as she was. "Leave," she said softly to him. "You're too sweet to be here. The last thing you need is this place."

Mush silently stood, his eyes level with hers. Without a word he kissed her cheek gently and ran to the door. Behind him he heard the shrill voice of a woman calling out, asking, "What's your rush, doll?" as the door swung closed behind him.

* * *

**AN:** Like it? Hate it? Think I should give up writing all together? A review is the best way to let your opinion be known!

**Up next: **An appreciation piece on the "fairer sex." Think you can figure out the song?


	3. In Praise of Women

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Stephen Sondheim.

* * *

_Insufferable, yes, but gentle. Their weaknesses are incidental. A functional, but ornamental, race._ "In Praise of Women" **A Little Night Music**

Spot Conlon was a figure of respect among the newsboys, not only in Brooklyn, but in the other boroughs of New York. It was surprising too everyone how the diminutive boy who probably weighed less than ninety-five percent of the newsboy population could rise through the ranks (in Brooklyn of all places!) and manage to not only end up on top, but also keep his position. The scrappy newsie was not one to back down from a fight and while physical strength was not much on his side, Spot was smart, fast, and, and determined. It was a winning combination. To the other newsies Spot seemed to have no weaknesses.

The Brooklyn leader, _did_, though, have one particular weakness: _Women_. Girls, dames, dolls, females, whatever you wanted to call them, Spot loved them all. It didn't matter what color they were. He'd had his fair share of wops, kikes, polacks, and even a Negro woman here and there. He had no preference in hair color or eye color or height or shape. Every different kind of woman he could find offered him something different.

He loved the way they rouged their cheeks, painted their lips, and curled their hair, giving them the look of a porcelain doll. He loved the way their blouses clung to their body, the way their skirts swished as they walked. He loved the way they lifted their skirts when stepping over puddles of water, though their calves were covered with stockings. The stocking was tight enough that it clung to the form of the well-shaped leg. Sometimes the stocking was frayed and torn, offering a succulent flash of skin. Spot loved when they laughed daintily, covering their mouths with their hands, or even when they laughed raucously, throwing their heads back and slapping their knees. Most of all he loved the feeling of a delicate body pressed against his, shaking in uncertainty as he ran his hands and lips over her skin.

Spot loved women for what he considered them to be: ornamentation.

As of late his interest had been aimed toward Mary, the young daughter of a local fisherman. The red-haired, freckled girl washed windows of businesses near his regular selling spot and he had noticed her day after day. Her hands were worn and dried from the work and her hair was always unruly after an hour of work. Still, she would scrub with no complaints, sometimes humming a soft tune. She nodded to Spot as he passed, and he in turn tipped his hat to the young girl. Their relationship ended there. He wouldn't even know her name had he not overheard one of the other girls call out to her.

"Whadaya want with a girl like that anyways?" a Brooklyn newsboy known as Slim asked Spot. "She's Irish Catholic, not likely to give out nothing before taking a walk down the aisle in a white dress."

"Neither was Bonnie," another newsboy, Joker, added with a smirk, "but she caved after only three dates with Spot." He gave the Brooklyn leader a pat on the back as though he had achieved something by deflowering the aforementioned girl. "Once Spot's got ya you'll melt in his hand."

"I'm guessing you know this from experience, Joker?" Slim ducked to avoid getting socked by the newsboy's fist. "Don't matter anyway. I mean, he's got Gussie…with a dame like that a fella don't need much more," Slim said, fanning himself with his hat as though simply the thought of her was enough to heat him up.

Gussie was a dancer at one of the theaters – one of the less respected theaters. With nine other girls, Gussie would prance around the stage with her face painted, her bust strapped down, though pushed up, and her legs encased in fishnet stockings. When she wasn't dancing she was taking drink orders from the rowdy patrons who frequented the joint. She was a showgirl, in her mind at least. Any man who so much as uttered the word "burlesque" around her was bound to walk away with a black eye.

Spot shrugged. "Gussie ain't half-bad for what she's worth…then again, she ain't worth much."

"And does she know you've set your sights on a pretty, young virgin?"

"I don't answer to _her_!" Spot said defensively. "I don't answer to _any_ girl!"

Slim held his hands up as though in surrender. "Sorry! Didn't mean nothing by it, I just was wondering how she felt about your wandering eye."

Spot sat back, thoughts of Mary popping into his head. "She knows what she gets with me. If she don't like it she's free to leave." His tone indicated that the discussion was over.

* * *

It was a week later when Spot stopped to speak to Mary. He'd been in the same area for the past two hours, half-selling and half-watching her. She'd washed the windows of three buildings in a row and was currently working on the outside window of a bakery. Her hair was pulled back into a braid and a white scarf covered most of her head. Her blouse was soiled; her skirt was torn at the hem. She wore no make-up, but her blue eyes seemed to sparkle. He noted how the sun seemed to bring out the freckles splayed across her nose and cheeks.

He neared her as she worked, completely oblivious to his attention. He kept his eyes on the streets, looking for customers. However, he would glance back out the corner of his eye to make sure she was still there. The closer he got the more he could hear her singing as she worked.

"She is more to be pitied then censored; she is more to be helped than denied," she murmured in a soft, sing-song tone. Her voice wasn't the kind that would hold up in a music hall, but then she also wasn't the sort of girl who would be interested in that sort of career. "She is only a woman who's ventured down life's stormy path ill advised…" She was singing to herself, not for money or applause or attention. It was for her own sake and enjoyment, no one else's.

Spot turned and looked at her. She was facing the window on her knees. The bucket beside her was filled with a murky water which grew darker each time she wet the sponge again to wipe down the glass. Spot was certain he was safe in watching her now, with her back to him.

"Can I help you sir?" Her eyes met his in the window's reflection.

"That's a nice song you're singing," he commented. "Lemme guess: you're a window washer with dreams of stardom?"

Mary dropped the sponge back into the bucket, stood, and wiped off her skirt without so much as glancing at the newsboy. "No…I just enjoy singing. I find that it makes the work easier to endure." She grabbed the handle of the bucket and lifted it with a slight grunt. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I have to get home to help my mother."

Spot, determined not to let her get away, jumped in front of her. "Would you like to buy a pape, miss?"

Mary looked at him with weary eyes. "No, thank you. My grandfather buys one everyday and we only need one." She brushed past him and quickened her pace. Spot simply followed, grabbing the bucket and pulling it up.

"Let me help."

"And what do you hope to gain in return?"

"Can't a guy help a lady without wanting something in return?"

Mary stopped short and yanked the bucket from his grasp. "Were you any other man I would have accepted your help with no suspicion."

He cocked his head to the side, intrigued by the headstrong girl. She was so unlike the others. "So what makes me different from any other man?"

"I've seen you. I know you think that I'm a simple and naïve girl, but I am very aware of you. I've seen you walk with girls on your arm."

"And walking with a girl is bad?" he asked, not completely understanding Mary's cool attitude.

"No, but you don't simply walk with them…you parade them around. You show them off as though they were a doll. When you get tired of one doll you buy yourself a new one." She began walking again, not at all surprised when Spot followed suit. "I suppose you've never even wondered what they thought about or how they felt."

"Thought about? What, you mean like dresses and jewelry?" Mary's irate expression told Spot that he had just said the wrong thing.

"And that's what you assume we think about?" She shook her head, her face red in anger. "If that is the sort of girl you are looking for you would do well to avoid me. I may be the poor daughter of a fisherman, but my grandfather is an educated man. He couldn't give my father an education, but he is certainly going to see to it that I have one, that I have a chance for a better life."

"You don't need a brain for that. Any woman can have a nice life if they marry a rich man."

"I have no intention of marrying for money! Maybe I won't even marry at all!" she announced. "I'll make my own way, on _my_ terms!" She stopped at a sewer and dumped the water from her bucket. "Even if I do marry, I can assure you it will be to a man who appreciates women."

"I think I appreciate women more than any man you'll ever meet," Spot said as his eyes trailed down her body.

"You _lust_ after women. It's not the same as appreciating." Mary hooked the bucket under her arm and gave Spot a curt nod. "If you're looking for a new doll there is a very nice shop right over there. They're all lovely and ornate without a brain or personality in any of them. I'm sure that would be right up your alley." With that she walked off, the first woman to ever leave Spot Conlon speechless.

* * *

**AN:** First, please don't hate me for doing the whole "Spot is a womanizing bastard" thing. It's just that I needed a chauvinist and he worked best. That being said, reviews are always appreciated!

**Up Next: **A reminder that patience is a virtue. Think you can figure out the song?


	4. Wait

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Stephen Sondheim.

* * *

_All good things come to those who can wait. _"Wait" **Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street**

Specs caught the boy's eyes across the table. The eyes were begging…_wanting_. Specs found it difficult not to react to the boy's silent plea, but he managed to force himself to remain still, to not give a single sound or motion or smile that would in any way indicate his feelings. Not here…not when the two of them were completely surrounded by the other newsboys. It was far too dangerous. The only response he gave to the other boy was a flash in his eyes that would go unnoticed unless a person was specifically looking for it. It was a flash that asked the boy to be patient while assuring him that it would soon come, that he would soon get what he wanted.

Dutchy was accustomed to the look, having seen it in Specs time and time again. He knew Specs was right in silently telling him they couldn't risk it there, but his body still longed for the touches…the caresses…the stealthily stolen kisses.

There was a time when Dutchy would have acted on his wants without a second thought. Specs, though, had taught him to be patient and to control his body. "If you were to jump at me and tackle me to the floor in front of them and kiss me," Specs had said to him after a particularly long and agonizing wait, "you'd be done with."

Dutchy pulled the boy in for a kiss, his hand tangled in Specs' curly hair. "Worth it," he proclaimed between kisses. "I'd choose you over anything."

Specs smiled, obviously flattered, though still concerned. "It's not so simple, Dutch. It's not like they just wouldn't be your friend no more or that they wouldn't want you sleeping in the Lodging House." He paused momentarily to savor the touch of Dutchy's lips on his neck and collar bone. "You'd be beaten to a pulp…maybe even killed. We both would, you and me."

Dutchy looked up defensively. "I don't want nobody laying a hand on you."

"Then you need to be patient…you need to accept that we can't be affectionate in public the way a boy and girl can." Specs removed Dutchy's glasses and kissed the bridge of his nose. "You need to wait."

The blonde boy grumbled, "I hate waiting."

As their secret affair continued, though, Dutchy found that waiting for Specs made it that much more wonderful when they were finally together. His body would tremble in anticipation just looking at the boy. His heart would beat faster, his breathing rapid. By the time he and Specs were finally alone, Dutchy was a tiger ready to pounce. He would grab at Specs' clothing, wishing he could simply rip it off so they could get to the good part. He probably would have if Specs didn't always manage to calm him and slow him down. While Dutchy was a tiger pouncing, Specs was a tortoise, taking his time.

Dutchy liked it hard and fast; Specs liked it slow and tender. They balanced each other out that way.

"How can you go so slow?" Dutchy gasped out as they lay together. His skin shone with sweat and he was trying his best to get his heart back to its normal pace.

Specs shrugged. "I don't want it to be over so soon. I want to enjoy every bit of it and remember every touch and every kiss so that when I _can't_ have you I can at least think about the last time I _did_ have you. I want it to drag out for as long as it can…cause once it's over that's it."

Dutchy kissed Specs' bare chest. "I don't have that sort of control over my body. I just jump right in and tear at it."

"I know…I've seen you do it."

"So how can I learn to take my time the way you do?"

"Practice," Specs suggested. "You know, when I see you sitting there with the other fellas around, I just start thinking what I'm gonna do when I get you alone. I think myself through every touch and every kiss. I think about what I'm gonna say and I try to imagine what you're gonna say back." He ran his hand through Dutchy's mass of blonde hair. "By the time the others are gone and it's just you and me, it's like I've got a plan to stick to." He kissed his lover's forehead and pulled their bodies closer together. "I think planning it is half the fun."

And so Dutchy was now looking at Specs. Racetrack was talking about the race he had seen that day and had the attention of all the boys. Well, all of them except for Specs and Dutchy, of course. Specs was politely watching Racetrack animatedly describe the horse race, but Dutchy could see in his eyes that his thoughts were elsewhere. He could feel his body aching for Specs' touch…but he refused to give in. Instead, he let his mind wander away as he thought about what he was going to do to Specs when he got him alone…

He would drag him into the shadows of the alley where not a soul could see them. Specs would be against the brick wall looking up at Dutchy with his warm eyes and his small smile. Dutchy would run his knuckles along the boy's cheek and Specs would take his hand and kiss each and every knuckle and finger. Dutchy's other hand, in the meantime, would snake down Specs' body to his trousers. He would gently unhook the belt and let the pants fall in a pool around the boy's ankles.

"You know I hate when you do that," Specs would say, though he would still be smiling. "I like it best when yours come down first." Specs' hands would be gently unbuttoning Dutchy's shirt, pushing the material away from his shoulders. Dutchy would shiver as he felt the soft, wet kisses against his skin.

"I can't help it," Dutchy would reply has he placed his hands on Specs' hips. "That's my favorite part of our get-togethers." Their bodies would slide down the wall to the hard ground below. "Let me," Dutchy would say, placing his shirt on the ground as a make-shift blanket. He'd then lay Specs' down…kissing his neck…Specs' hand in his hair…his hand on Specs' thigh…lips together…bodies together…hands together…

Dutchy jumped from his fantasy when Racetrack slammed his hand against the table. "And bam! Red Stripe takes the lead and runs across right before Excalibur!" The newsboy sunk into his chair, his head shaking sadly. "Damn horse lost me fifty cents!"

"That's it, Race, blame the poor horse for your problems," Blink said with a snort.

Dutchy laughed along with the others, but his eyes were once again focused solely on Specs. And their eyes once again met. And Dutchy's eyes once again pleaded. This time, though, Specs's eyes twinkled and the boy gave a small nod.

Specs stood and forced a yawn. "I'm beat," he told the other boys. "I think I'll be heading back."

"Me too," Dutchy jumped in, hoping he didn't sound too eager. "It's been a long day."

The rest of the newsies heckled the pair, claiming they needed more stamina. Still, they all waved them off without a second glance. Jack was already up telling another story, so no one even noticed how close the two were as they left.

The streets were nearly empty as they walked, but they made no move to touch. Instead, Dutchy nodded toward an alleyway and they nonchalantly entered as though simply taking a shortcut.

"I was waiting long," Dutchy told him in a hushed voice. "But I was just thinking about what we'd do." His hand crept down Specs' back. "It helped."

Specs smiled and reveled in his lover's touch. "We'll take it slow…" When Dutchy groaned he added in a soft tone, "We'll get there soon enough…have patience…"

* * *

**AN:** So this obviously isn't a literal take on the song (it's about waiting…but waiting for something a bit different).

**Up next:** Something that both burlesque dancers and newsboys may need to do to make a sale. Think you can figure out the song?


	5. Gotta Get a Gimmick

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Jule Styne and Stephen Sondheim.

* * *

_You're more than just a mimic when you got a gimmick_. "Gotta Get a Gimmick" **Gypsy**

Jack sourly looked over the stories in the morning addition of The New York World. The headline for the day – Mayor Gives Speech at New Hospital – was a bust. There was no way to re-angle it to make it interesting. The mayor had been giving speeches everywhere, what with the impending election, so this was nothing new.

He flipped open the paper and saw an article about the rat found nibbling on money at a local bank. He had to smile. That one practically wrote itself. Dirty Rat Found Taking Money at Bank. No, not "taking;" "embezzling." Good thing David had taught him that word. That would catch the attention of some passersby.

Further down on the page was a small blurb about the recent debutante with a picture of the girl hugging her father. The camera had caught the embrace at such an angel that it looked as though the man was grabbing his daughter's rear end. Incest Scandal of the Latest Deb. Not bad.

He had a start, some stories he could stretch the truth about. Now, though, he'd really have to sell it. That's what so many people didn't understand. You could come up with "improved" headlines until you were blue in the face, but if you couldn't sell them – if you couldn't turn on the charm – you may as well be on the corner shining shoes or turning tricks.

"Is your money really safe in the bank?" he called out to the throngs of people. "Vermin found embezzlin' money at the New Trust Bank!" Vermin. That was another good word David had taught him. People didn't expect newsboys to have such a large vocabulary, so his use of such words gave him an edge; it made it seem like he really knew what he was taking about. "Dirty rats running amuck in the bank!"

People approached from all side, hands extended with money. If there was one thing that could strike a nerve with all people, Jack knew it was fear of losing money. He wasn't surprised to find twenty of his stack gone as customers scanned through the paper for more information on the supposed bank problems. By the time they realized how they'd been swindled, the charming newsboy was gone, staking out a new spot and hawking a new story.

"Scandal strikes the Hartcourt family debutante," he announced to a group of young women who were on their way to their factory job. "Young girl ruined by incestuous father." He shot the girls a charming grin as they gasped over his proclamation. "I always suspected that those hoity-toity debs ain't as squeaky clean as they like to think. I find that the working girls, such as yourselves, are among the finest." The girls giggled and fished through their pockets for money. They each bought a paper from him, hoping to relish in the dirt of the high class girl they both admired and loathed for her social status, good looks, and expensive clothing.

Jack ambled away, whistling a soft tune. Between his natural charm and ability to think on his feet – not to mention the help David was giving him on expanding his vocabulary – Jack rarely had to worry about a poor headline.

* * *

If there was one thing Crutchy couldn't stand, it was fake gimps. Not only was it insulting to have someone imitate his real life affliction – practically a mockery of him and every other true life gimp on the streets of New York – but it stole his angle; his customers. Luckily for him, most of the people he came across could tell a real cripple from a fake one. Those other guys? They were fakes, mere mimics. He, though, was the real deal, lame leg and all.

"Buy a pape, ma'am?" he asked piteously, holding out the paper with one hand as he leaned on his crutch a bit more than he really needed to.

"You poor thing," she said. "What happened to you?"

"Born this way. Doctors said something about the bones in my leg not fully developin'."

The woman clicked her tongue, shaking her head at the unfortunate creature before her. "Of course, I'll buy a paper," she told him, fishing through her coin purse. She pulled out a shiny nickel and exchanged it for the newspaper, telling him to keep the change.

"God bless you, ma'am," he told her, tipping his cap to her. He liked to include mention of God when talking to potential customers. It made him seem like an innocent school boy, and what person doesn't want to give an innocent school boy money? Besides, he had to give thanks to the man upstairs for giving him this angle. Most people would never believe it, but Crutchy was often grateful for his bum leg, his life being what it was. It gave him something to work with and it got him noticed. If he were to share a selling spot with a bunch of other guys – _healthy_ guys – customers would be much more likely to notice _him_ and to buy a paper from _him_. It's like they felt giving their money to a crippled poor boy was more charitable than giving their money to a regular poor boy; as though both boys don't need the money just as much.

"Young man," an elderly gentleman called to Crutchy, motioning him over. "I see you've got a problem with your leg. I'm sure that being out in this weather isn't helping matters. Do you need to come inside and rest for a moment?"

"Oh, no thank you, sir!" Crutchy assured him. "But if you could buy a pape, I would be most thankful."

"Of course," the man said, handing over a penny. No tip this time. Still, Crutchy again tipped his hat with a "God bless you" before hobbling off.

It was true that Crutchy hated having to depend on others. He didn't like having to be carried or having to be helped with things. He was self-sufficient. Still, he couldn't help but milk his condition for everything he could if it meant he's have a few extra pennies to show for it at the end of the day. With a leg like that, he'd never find himself sleeping outside.

* * *

"Well, aren't you a wee little thing?" Tumbler tried not to wince as the portly woman pinched his cheek. He kept his boyish smile plastered on his face, thinking about the extra pennies he'd likely get.

"And such a little darling!" the woman's friend cooed. "How much is your paper, little boy?"

"Just one cent, ma'am!" he told her with his cheeky grin.

"Well, let me buy one, dear," the first lady said, offering him a nickel.

"I'll take one as well," said the other, following suit.

"Thank you very kindly!" he chirped as he pocketed the coins and ambled off, not even waiting for them to ask for change.

Tumbler had it good. At only six years of age, he was still young enough to be fawned over by older women, especially ones who'd never had children and needed to pour their maternal instincts out onto someone. A newsboy as old as ten could still tug on the heart strings of women. As soon as he turned thirteen, though, the newsboy was considered a hoodlum, a menace to society. Women would click their tongues as he walked by, talking about what a shame it was that children of society had fallen so low. Then, if the newsboy was still hawking headlines by the time he was nearing twenty…well, then he was just a pitiful waste of space and would never amount to anything better.

Tumbler saw a group of society ladies enjoying their afternoon tea at an outside table. They looked like the types who loved charity cases and loved feeling as though they were "giving back" to society. He put on his best smile as he approached them. "Latest fashion from Paris!" he called out precociously as he held a paper up in the air. "I hear they're all the rage," he told the ladies.

"Oh, would you look at the little darling?" the one nearest him said to the others.

"Elizabeth, why don't you give him something?" said another.

"Why aren't you in school, dear?" asked the one who was apparently Elizabeth.

"Can't, ma'am. My pop was laid off after he was hurt and my mom can't support all of us." A little white lie never hurt anyone. "It's my little sister's birthday and all she wants is a doll, so I've been saving up to get her one!" Okay, so that one was a big lie. Still, if the women found him at all disingenuous, they didn't say anything.

"Let me buy a paper, dear!" Elizabeth said.

"I'll take one as well," said another woman.

"And me!" yet another one said.

Each woman handed over no less than ten cents, leaving Tumbler with nearly a dollar. He already planned to treat himself to a sticky bun at the nearby bakery. It would be his gift to himself for a job well done. "Thank you most kindly! Julie will be so happy and I'll be sure to tell her it was because of you!" The women all giggled with each other as they watched Tumbler sprint off, assuming he was on his way to the local doll shop to pick out a pitiful looking rag doll that only a poor little girl could really appreciate. Tumbler, though, had only thoughts of the sweet, moist pastry melting in his mouth. With his young age and his precocious nature, he knew that he could afford to treat himself now and then.

* * *

**AN:** I _had_ to do a one-shot with this song. It would have been wrong of me not to!

**Up next:** Is knowledge power or is ignorance bliss? Think you can figure out the song?


	6. I Know Things Now

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Stephen Sondheim.

**Warning:** This chapter contains implied child molestation. Proceed carefully!

* * *

_But he drew me close, and he swallowed me down; down a dark slimy path where lie secrets that I never want to know._"I Know Things Now" **Into the Woods**

It had begun like many days had for Les. It was summer, so Les was given permission by his mother to sell with the other newsies for the day. His only rule was that he had to stay with one of the older boys. David was busy with other things that day and couldn't look after his younger brother, but his parents had come to know and trust the newsboys, especially Jack. They had no doubt that none of them would let the ten-year-old boy get into trouble.

"Jack, Jack!" Les had called out as he ran toward the distribution center. "Jack, Ma says I can sell today!"

"Alright, Les!" Jack said, giving the young back a slap on the back. "You selling with Davy?"

"Nah, he's busy working on something with the paper. It's just me today."

"Well, you stick with Blink today, alright?"

Les' face fell at that. He'd assumed, of course, that he'd be spending the day with Jack. Sure, he liked Blink, but Jack was his hero, his role model. "Can't I sell with you?"

"Sorry, kid, but as soon as I finish I've got to run to Brooklyn."

"I can come to Brooklyn too. I ain't scared!"

Jack smiled at the spunk of the young boy. "I don't doubt that, Les, but Brooklyn ain't a place you want to be right now. It's dangerous." Before Les could reply, Jack had beckoned Kid Blink over. "Blink, make sure he don't get into trouble."

"Sure thing, Jack!" The newsie grinned at Les. "Hey, I'll show you some of the best selling spots, okay Les?"

Les nodded, though it wasn't hard to see the disappointment on his face. He mutely stood beside Blink in line, fuming at the thought of being told he was too young to go with Jack to Brooklyn. Sure, he was only ten, but he could handle himself in Brooklyn just as well as Boots or Snipeshooter could. He had an overwhelming desire to prove to Jack – to prove to _everyone_ – that he was tough enough to go anywhere he wanted. He wasn't scared. He was _never_ scared.

* * *

Les stayed with Blink up until about noon. He'd only bought thirty papers compared to Blink's fifty, but he got more tips on account of his age. Blink gave him the go ahead to stand on the other street corner, just so long as he didn't wander away to where Blink couldn't see him. When he pointed out that Tumbler, who was four years younger than Les, was allowed to go off by himself, Blink had shaken his head. "It ain't the same, Les. Tumbler grew up on the streets and knows his way around. You've lived a more sheltered life and you ain't as aware of creeps lurking about."

Les frowned at the thought. Just because he wasn't as street smart as Tumbler or any of the other newsboys didn't mean he was an idiot. You didn't need to live on the streets to know that if a fella has a gun you should run the other way or to know to stay out of dark alley ways. Les could tell who was good and who was bad. After all, he'd known the moment he'd set eyes on the Delancey brothers that they were up to no good.

At noon, Blink called to Les. "We're going over to a small place around the corner for lunch. They got cheap hot dogs and they ain't half-bad."

Les' stomach grumbled and he knew he needed to eat. But all of the day's events culminated in his mind and he grew angry thinking about how he had been pushed off to the side, deemed too young or too sheltered by the older newsies. He'd show them. "Nah, Blink, Ma's got lunch ready for me. I think I'm going home."

The older boy shrugged. "Okay, Les. Let me walk you home."

"I don't need no baby-sitter! I live right there!"

Blink raised he eyebrows at the outburst of the young Jacobs boy. "Fine, fine! Just make sure you get home safe."

"I will," Les promised as he ran toward his building. He entered the building and peeked through the window. Blink had stayed where he was, watching to make sure the young boy got in alright. After waiting a few moments, he turned and walked away. Les counted to ten before sprinting out and running in the opposite direction. He'd show them all.

* * *

Les hadn't expected the walk to Brooklyn to be so tiring. He'd had to stop now and then to rest and had stolen a drink of water from the pump outside someone's home. His stomach gnawed at the lack of food, but he didn't want to stop until he got there.

As he crossed over the Brooklyn bridge, the sky rumbled with thunder. Les stopped to glance up and saw how dark the clouds had grown. He quickened his pace, hoping to find shelter before the rain began. Drops of water shot against the ground around him as he ran, and soon water poured down on him as though the entire sky had opened up and God had dumped a bottomless bucket of water down on the earth. He was soaking wet and freezing within minutes. His socks were wet and squished within his shoes as he ran. When he finally made it to the other side, he ran to the first awning he could locate – placed over a small toy shop – and took shelter beneath it. He wrapped his arms around his body to keep warm, though his fingers felt like icicles.

Behind him a door opened. "Dear me! You're soaked, child!" Les turned to see an older man standing in the door way. "Please, come in!"

Les stood frozen in his spot. He'd never encountered a situation like this and wasn't quite sure how to proceed. He'd, of course, been told not to talk with strangers, but Les didn't see how this would be any different than his going into a toy shop to buy something. The man looked kind and Les figured anything was better than standing in the rain and catching his death. He scooted in toward the man. "I…I don't want to bother you, sir."

"It's no bother, son," the man assured him. "Now come in before you freeze!"

Les ran in past the man and exhaled at the warmth of the building. The shop was dark, save for the candle that sat burning on the counter. Les could make out the silhouettes of small toy figurines. Dolls, trains, swords, tops, and many other wonderful things sat there waiting to be bought.

A hand fell on his back. "I have a small fire burning back here," the man told him. "We'll get you warmed up." He led Les back to a small living area. A decent sized fire blazed, giving the entire room warmth.

"Thank you, sir."

The man handed Les a blanket. "You must get out of those wet clothes, son. Wrap this around you. I'll get you something to eat and drink."

As soon as the man was out of sight, Les stripped down to nothing. His shirt, knickers, shoes, and socks were tossed into a small pile and he wrapped the thin blanket around his bare, shivering body as he cuddled up in one of the large chairs. The man re-entered and placed a tray on the table beside his chair. There was a bowl of cabbage soup and a mug of hot chocolate.

"Eat up. It'll warm you."

Les took the food gratefully, slurping it down quickly. "I can't pay you for this, sir."

The man waved his hand. "It's no problem, son."

"Les. My name is Les."

The man smiled, his teeth gleaming in the dark. "Nice to meet you, Les. You can call me Henry."

Les smiled. So many adults insisted that they be addressed as "Mr." or "Mrs." Les liked being able to call someone by their first name. "Thank you, Henry."

"Where are your parents?"

"Back home. I live in Manhattan."

"So how did you come to be here in Brooklyn all by yourself?"

Les shrugged. "I just wanted to. Everyone thinks that cause I'm young I can't handle myself in Brooklyn." He grabbed the hot chocolate and gulped it. It tasted much different from any hot chocolate he'd ever had before. There was a strong taste that was both bitter and sweet. He took another gulp.

"How old are you, Les?"

"Ten."

"Well, you're not too young for anything, are you?"

Les smiled, glad to have an adult finally see it from his point of view. He took another gulp, downing the entire mug this time. "That is good hot chocolate, Henry."

"Do you like hot chocolate?"

"I don't get to have it much."

"Let me get you something else to drink."

Les lay back in the chair, eyes closed. He was suddenly feeling light-headed and tired. He assumed it had to do with walking all the way to Brooklyn. He stifled a yawn as Henry returned, this time carrying a glass with a long stem. A red liquid sloshed around inside. "Here," he said, holding the rim up to Les' lips.

Les took the glass and tilted it back. The liquid was bitter and he hated the taste of it, but he drank it anyway. He was aware of the blanket falling down off his shoulders, leaving him half-exposed. He was aware of Henry's hands against his skin. He was aware of many things…things he suddenly wished he hadn't been aware of.

* * *

When Les left the shop the rain had stopped. His clothing was still damp and he shivered as he walked, though he knew his shivering had nothing to do with the damp clothing. With his head down and his hands stuffed in his pocket, he walked back toward his home. He tried to expel the memory of what had just happened. He wanted to forget it all; forget that he'd gone to Brooklyn and forget that he'd met Henry.

He'd gotten his wish. He was now much more street smart than he had been. He was now aware of what lurked out there and what things he should avoid. He was now ready for the dark world that his parents had tried so hard to shield him from.

Now he just wished to be a little boy again.

* * *

**AN: **Yes, I know that's a disturbing chapter. I was careful to make it as un-graphic as possible while still getting the point across. Still, there's no way I could do this song and _not_ have it come to this (and if you've seen _Into the Woods_ – at least seen it done correctly – you'll understand). I can assure you, though, that there are no more pedophile stories in this collection.

**Up next:** A song from an early Sondheim work that, sadly, was never staged (though there is a studio recording).


	7. All For You

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Stephen Sondheim.

* * *

_Sometimes it's true, my words are bitter, but that's because I care. _"All For You" **Saturday Night**

He had never in his wildest dreams even considered that they would end up this way. They hated each other; at least, they were _supposed_ to hate each other. They were supposed to exchange insults and glares with each other. They were supposed to make each others' lives miserable. They were supposed to be on opposite teams when it came to scuffles in the street, cheering on their own friends.

They were _not _supposed to have sex.

Somehow, the stars had aligned one night and the two of them were thrown together. Skittery had been walking alone on the street, something he'd done many times before. This time, though, there had been someone following him – three someones, in fact. Before he could react, they'd grabbed him, picking his pockets clean. He received several blows and was thrown into a nearby alley. After a kick to the ribs, he decided that the fifty-five cents just wasn't worth it.

He couldn't be sure how long he lay there. Part of it was that he wasn't sure his assailants had left; the other part was that it hurt too much to move.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Sure, he wasn't exactly a guardian angel shining down upon him, but when Skittery finally rolled on to his back and looked up, Oscar Delancy looked absolutely wonderful to him.

"Mugged."

Oscar cursed, not evening trying to hide his amusement. "I thought you newsies had street smarts."

"I do," Skittery grumbled. "I got enough smarts to know that when you're out-numbered three to one you got no choice but to let 'em do what they want."

"So you'd let them screw you if they wanted?"

Skittery shrugged and then winced at the pain.

"Damn," Oscar muttered. He leaned down and yanked Skittery to his feet, despite the protests of pain from the newsboy. "Come on."

"Where you taking me?"

"Does it matter?"

Skittery leaned against his unlikely means of support. "Guess not."

What followed that first night was a multitude of nights filled with secret meetings, stolen kisses, and sex. They would meet behind one of the brothels. If anyone saw them heading to the whorehouse, that person would assume they were going for the same reason the other men were; if they didn't return that night, there would be no questions the following morning, just knowing smirks and hearty pats on the back.

Skittery grew to really enjoy their meetings. It wasn't just the sex; it was the idea of a person being there. When you live on the streets and are forced to be self-sufficient, there is little room for connections with anyone else. You have friends and you screw a prostitute here and there, maybe, but nothing goes beyond that. With Oscar, though, Skittery felt like he wasn't so alone.

The more he thought about it, the more Skittery knew he was developing real feelings for Oscar. That worried him.

While there was certainly passion in their relationship, there was very little tenderness. Oscar was more concerned out sexual releases than he was about actual feelings. Skittery didn't care to discuss it, though. Oscar would have just rolled his eyes and made some disparaging comment about the entire thing. It was best to leave things well enough alone. After all, the two of them had a good thing going, so why mess it up?

* * *

"Damn, that's good," Oscar groaned. He rolled to the side, landing beside a panting, sweating Skittery. "Want a cigarette?"

Skittery shook his head as he wiped the sheen of sweat off of his forehead. He had to smile, seeing as it was the first time Oscar had offered him anything.

"How come I'm never…uh…on top," Skittery asked, not sure how exactly to phrase the question. "I mean, you're always the one going inside."

"I've got more experience, Oscar said matter-of-factly. With a devilish smirk, he patted one of Skittery's butt cheeks, adding, "And you've got those firm cheeks." He paused to take a drag on the cigarette. "What are you trying to say, anyway? I don't give you what you need?"

"Nah, that's not it. I just thought that next time…well…maybe _I_ could be on top, you know?"

"Since when do you think?" Oscar said, smacking Skittery on the head. The younger boy blushed furiously, angered by Oscar's insinuation.

"I think a _lot_," he mumbled. "And I got feelings, you know."

"Saying I don't?"

"You don't seem to." In a bold move, Skittery reached over and plucked the smoldering cigarette from between Oscar's fingers. He pursed his lips around it, revealing in both the taste of tobacco and the taste of Oscar which still lingered around the paper. "Sometimes, I don't think you feel anything."

"I feel lots of things! Right now, for example, I'm feeling angry because some pansy stole my cigarette!"

"I'm a pansy?" Skittery asked, screwing his mouth into a harsh scowl.

"If it looks like a pansy and acts like a pansy, well then it must be a pansy, huh?" Oscar sneered, swiping the cigarette back.

It only took a split second before Skittery jumped up and grabbed his clothes. "I guess you don't want to be seen with a pansy then," he grumbled as he pulled on his trousers. "I guess I should just leave now."

"Leave?" Oscar asked as he sat up. He gave an exasperated sigh, shaking his head furiously. "Look, you don't have to leave! I didn't realize you'd be so hurt by being called a pansy."

"I _am_ a pansy! I ain't ashamed of it, neither!" He was shoving his shirt into the trousers now, just wanting to get out of there. "I don't care what you call me!"

"So what's got your panties in a twist?" When Skittery didn't respond, Oscar stood and grabbed him by the waist, pulling the boy's body back against his own. "You're not leaving before you tell me what this is all about."

Skittery yanked himself away, turning to face the boy he'd grown so attached to. "I'm not interested in being some…some faceless person for you to screw."

"What? You expecting me to pay you for it or something?"

"I can't believe I actually thought this would somehow make things different." Skittery pulled on his boots and gave Oscar – who was still stripped down to nothing – a curt nod.

"Fine!" Oscar relented. "Fine, so I'm an asshole! Fine, so I say hurtful things! I admit it! But you knew that from the beginning! Were you expecting sex to change that?"

Skittery shrugged.

"You can't just expect one relationship to make me some kind of a different man! You get what you see!"

Oscar sat down, his face red from his rant. He took deep, calculated breaths, not wanting to continue until he had calmed down. When his heart rate had returned to normal, he looked back up. Skittery was still standing in his spot, watching Oscar with a mixture of guilt and wonder.

"Look," Oscar began in a toner softer than Skittery had ever heard him use, "I know I'm not a ray of sunshine. I'm pissed half the time. I'm crude. I like to bring people down. I know I've been doing that to you. But it's only because I care."

Skittery scoffed, giving a short laugh. "If that's how you care about a person, maybe I'd rather you _didn't_ care."

"I'm not used to all of this," Oscar said in protest. "Anyone I had sex with in the past has been paid for, no strings attached. Now, I'm expected to be all lovey-dovey? It's not something I'm used to."

"So…when you say mean things to me, it's because you're trying to be caring?"

Oscar shrugged awkwardly. "Yeah."

Skittery slid into a sitting position beside Oscar. Uncertainly, he rested his head against the boy's shoulder. After a moment, Oscar's hand reached up to Skittery's head, his fingers entangling in Skittery's hair.

"Just so you know," Oscar said softly as he ran his lips across Skittery's skin, "when I called you a pansy…I meant it. You _are_ a fucking pansy."

* * *

**AN:** I have a soft spot for this pairing! And, for this song, it worked really well, I think!

**Up Next:** Escape through literature can be painful if the person escaping cannot tell the difference between fantasy and reality. Think you can figure out the song?


	8. I Read

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Stephen Sondheim.

* * *

_I recognize the limits of my dreams. I know how painful dreams can be unless you know they're merely dreams._ "I Read" **Passion**

Swifty couldn't remember a day when he hadn't come across Specs with his nose in some book. Even at night, when the other boys were engaged in card games, story swapping, or various forms of horseplay, the bespectacled newsboy was more often than not sitting by a window with a lone candle, poring through his newest book. How he managed to tune out his rambunctious friends enough to concentrate, Swifty had no idea, but Specs would sit there, almost unmoving – save for when he had to turn the page – completely absorbed by the words.

Few of the newsies could read. Even those who could usually had a limited knowledge of words and vocabulary. Specs, though, was one of the only newsies who could sit and read long stories, actually understanding what was being said. He had been lucky enough to have attended school for five years before his father died, leaving him and his two older brothers to go their own ways. It was hard to continue schooling when you had to work all day, and it was a luxury that Specs had to let go. But school or no school, he refused to stop learning. He used the newspapers to expand his vocabulary and to be aware of current events. He used card games like blackjack to keep up his mathematic skills. At night, while the others were engaging in games and revelry, Specs was reading a new book he'd saved up to buy.

To most of the boys, the idea of sitting and reading sounded boring, especially compared to activities like poker and marbles and stickball. Reading wasn't exciting or exhilarating; they certainly wouldn't use it beyond their daily selling, so why bother to increase their knowledge? Swifty certainly fell into that category, preferring athletic activities to intellectual ones. Still, he was intrigued by Specs' interest in reading. Sometimes he would watch Specs reading, noticing the way his eyes widened or his brow furrowed; the way his lips twitched upward in a grin or fell downward into a frown. Specs' face displayed a wide array of emotions as he read, leading Swifty to wonder if there wasn't something to this reading thing he wasn't seeing.

* * *

"Good book?"

Specs pulled his eyes from the book and found Swifty looking at him with curiosity. "Very good," he told him. He didn't go into great detail, though. In the past, when he'd related a story he had just read to his friends, they had made big shows of yawning, letting him know that they were bored by it. He no longer made attempts to pull the other newsies into the world of literature; if they didn't want in, then it was their loss.

"You been so into that book, you didn't even notice that they opened the distribution center," Swifty told him, pointing to the long line of newsboys which had sprung up. "I figured that must be a pretty good book."

"Really good," Specs assured him as he stood. He closed the book, keeping one finger inside to hold his place, and stepped to the end of the line. Swifty took a place right behind him.

"You read a lot," the boy said matter-of-factly.

Specs shrugged. "I read about as much as Racetrack makes bets."

"That's a lot."

"So go pester him about that."

Swifty was taken aback by Specs' snapping reply. "I wasn't trying to pester you or nothing. I was just making a comment about it."

"Guess I'm used to being teased for reading," Specs said wryly. "Sorry for snapping at you. I'm just defensive of my reading habits."

There was a bout of silence as the line lurched ahead. Specs and Swifty stepped forward, the latter trying to subtly study the former. "Why?" he asked finally. "I mean, what's so great about reading?"

"You'd know if you tried it."

"Can't," Swifty insisted, shaking his head. "Can't sit still that long. Besides, my reading ain't as good as yours."

"I could help you with that," Specs offered.

"Tell me, first," Swifty insisted. "Tell me how you can sit there for so long, just looking at words."

"They're not just words, Swifty. They have meaning to them. The words create sentences and the sentences create paragraphs and the paragraphs create worlds and characters."

"What kinds of worlds and characters?"

Specs smiled, seeing that he had momentarily captured the interest of the other boy. He opened the book to where he had left off and showed it to Swifty. "In this book, you've got these guys who were fighting this long war and now they're on their way home. Odysseus, the main guy, is sort of their leader and he's been gone from home for ten years."

"Ten years?" Swifty asked skeptically.

"Ten years! But that's not even the worst part! Now they have to sail back home, but they keep running into bad people."

"Like who?"

"Well, there're these women monsters who sing to lure men to their deaths, there's cannibals–"

"What're cannibals?"

"They're people who eat other people," Specs told him, noting Swifty's response of both disgust and awe. "And then there's this Cyclops, this monster with one eye that wants to eat them."

"Well…well, how do they get away?"

Specs shrugged. "You've gotta read it."

Swifty deflated. Specs had gotten him so worked up with that tale, and now he'd actually have to do the work to find out the end. That was such a gyp! "You still haven't answered my question," he said grumpily. "Why do you read?"

The bespectacled boy was quiet for a moment as the line moved forward. He held the book against his chest as though it were some sort of treasure. To him, it almost was. It was his escape. "Life isn't what I hoped it would be," he said cryptically.

"Huh?"

"I like you guys. I don't mind selling papers for a living. But don't you ever get so frustrated with it all?" Specs asked. "The freezing cold, the empty stomachs, the way people look at you like you're lower than scum?"

Swifty frowned. He hadn't much thought about it; he didn't _want_ to think about it. Thinking about it would mean to acknowledge it. He preferred to push it aside and focus on the good things about his life. Being forced to face his troubles, though, made him admit that it wasn't quite the fine life he and the other newboys tried to pretend it was.

Specs nodded at the boy's frown, seeing his point had been made. "When I feel down, I like to read. Then I can concentrate on other people's problems instead of my own," he said half-jokingly.

"Never thought about it like that," Swifty admitted. "I just thought it was…you know…looking at words."

"A common mistake," Specs said dryly. "Of course, you have to be careful when you use books as an escape."

"Why's that?"

"You can't expect that fictional world to last long. When I read, I enjoy the moment of being brought to a new place and time, but I don't let that interfere with my sense of reality."

"But don't you want to forget about reality?"

"I do," Specs said, "but I know that if I let fantasy cloud my mind, coming back to reality will be twice as hard."

"Like when you're having a really nice dream at night and then you wake up and realize none of it happened," Swifty analogized.

Specs' lips turned upward into a smile. He was pleased that Swifty understood what he meant. "Something like that," he said. "That's why dreaming can be dangerous if you don't recognize they're just dreams."

The two finally made it to the front of the line and purchased their stack for the morning. Neither generally sold in the same area of the other, so their conversation was coming to an end.

"If you take me up on my offer, let me know," Specs said. "I've never taught anyone to read, but I'm sure I could help you some."

"Yeah," Swifty said. "Yeah, I…I will."

Specs nodded, giving the boy a wave before turning. Swifty stood in his spot, watching Specs disappear into the bustling New York crowd. He then slinked away in the other direction. In his mind, visions of one-eyed monsters and man-eating people, swirled. So caught up in the story which was playing out in his head, he didn't even notice the grumbling in his stomach or the chilly wind which blew against him.

* * *

**Up Next:** Should a person wait around for their "dream" mate, or are they simply setting themselves up for disappointment? Think you can figure out the song?


	9. Stay

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Richard Rodgers and Stephen Sondheim.

* * *

_I am not the dream come true, but stay. Not perfection, nor are you, but stay. _"Stay" **Do I Hear a Waltz?**

"I'm through!" Blink bellowed as he stormed down the street. Behind him, he could hear Racetrack feebly calling him back, but he didn't slow his pace; if anything, the protests of his lover (or, rather, _former_ lover) only urged him to quicken his steps.

Neither of them had had any disillusions about their relationship when it had begun many months earlier. Its inception had come in the form of a drunken tryst behind a Brooklyn bar. Their bodies, brimming with sexual wants, had flung about on the filthy ground as they achieved the sexual releases they so desired. It wasn't about love or caring; it was about the sex, and they both knew that. They were looking for something with no strings attached, and they didn't care what it led to.

Who knew it would grow into a true romance?

Blink wasn't sure when it happened, but at some point amid their many sexual encounters, he had fallen for the Italian newsie. Now it wasn't only about sexual release; it was about being with Racetrack, regardless of the context. He found he could enjoy Race's company even when they were doing nothing at all.

"Dammit, Blink! Just stop!" Race hollered as he ran behind the blonde newsie.

"You're an asshole."

"You've always known that."

Racetrack had always had a knack for sarcasm. More than once his smartass ways had gotten him into trouble. He bore the bruises and scars from being socked after mouthing off to a bigger guy. It was his go to defense when he got nervous, and he got nervous far more often than he wanted to let on.

When their relationship had blossomed from a series of one-night stands into a true romance, Racetrack had gotten more nervous than he had ever been in his life. The very idea of love or anything beyond emotionless carnal pleasure was something not well-known to him, and he didn't like that. He preferred staying in areas he knew like the back of his hand. He could navigate the horse tracks and put down his day's wages without breaking a sweat, but love? That was uncharted territory. So to mask his fear, he'd begun making biting jokes, using sarcasm to quell his nerves. The downside was that it made him look like a jerk.

"If you didn't want to be with me, you could have just said something and saved me the trouble," Blink muttered. Normally, Racetracks' annoying tendencies didn't bother him. In the past he could have shrugged off the smartass comments as well as the other guys and had the ability to keep his temper in check most of the time. But that was when they were just friends; when you became lovers, all of the rules changed. "Maybe I'm a sissy for saying this, but you really hurt me."

Race bit his lip in guilt, one of the few times he'd allowed his tough front to crack. "Blink, I never wanted to hurt you."

"Oh, bullshit!"

"It's the truth, you ass!"

"Don't call _me_ an ass, you ass!"

They were staring each other down, each as red-faced as the other. Blink's hands were in tight fists while Racetrack's were stuffed in his pockets. Hardly anyone paid attention to the sparring couple, not that the two newsies were aware of anyone but each other. They were caught in their own little world of anger.

"Ever since we started this, you rag on me every chance you get!"

"Come on, Blink! I'm no worse than I was before we started fucking!"

Blink slapped a hand over the other boy's mouth, pulling him from the street into a more private area. "Are you crazy?" he hissed. "Shut up unless you want to get your ass kicked!"

"Ashamed of it?" Race asked cheekily.

"You know I'm not," Blink told him with a harsh glare.

"So what's the problem?"

"Dammit! Can you stop being a smartass for just once in your life?"

"I thought you liked my sarcasm."

"Not when I'm trying to get you to be serious!"

Race groaned in frustration. "I don't get what's with you! We've known each other for, what? Four years?"

"Five," Blink muttered.

"In all that time, have you ever known me to _not_ be a smartass?"

"No," he admitted begrudgingly.

"I'm sure that you and the other guys would describe me as a foul-mouthed, sarcastic, biting asshole."

Blink couldn't deny that the description was accurate. Racetrack was self-aware; he knew that he was an asshole, and it made it nearly impossible for Blink to really hate him for it. "But it's different now than it was before."

"Why is it so different?"

"Because!" Blink shouted as though it were a viable explanation. "You don't act that way to someone you love!"

"Says who? Is there some rules that I don't know?"

"It's common fucking knowledge, dumbass!"

"Yeah, well I never heard nothing about it!"

"It's no wonder you never had a good relationship, if this is the way you act when you love someone."

"You're the first."

Racetracks' confession caused Blink to pause. It wasn't so surprising (he could guess that Race preferred physical relationships to emotional ones), but it caused the young boy's anger to ebb slightly. He was Racetrack's first love. Even considering the Italian boy was a self-proclaimed asshole, Blink was flattered.

"Blink…look, I know I'm not perfect. Not even close," Racetrack said as he leaned back wearily against the brick wall behind him. "I'm not the most good-looking or most smartest or most nicest of guys. I blow most of my money at the races and probably will for the rest of my life. I don't like to express my emotions like some wuss because it makes me feel vulnerable, so I make a smartass remark instead."

"If this is your way of trying to get me to stay with you, it ain't working."

"My point," Race continued with a glare, "is that I know I'm not anyone's idea of a dream guy or nothing, and I know you could probably do better."

Sheepishly, Blink started to rebut, saying, "Race…"

"But you're not too perfect neither!" the other boy spat out quickly. "I don't mean to get down on you, but you've got problems."

"Yeah? Like what?" Blink sneered defensively.

"For one, you've got a bad temper and fly off on a guy at the drop of a hat. You're too emotional and don't think things through."

Blink didn't like hearing the criticism, but he couldn't deny that it was true. "So I'm not perfect."

"And I'm not either."

"So…where does this leave us?" Blink asked hesitantly as he emulated Racetrack's stance against the wall. "Do we stay and risk killing each other, or do we call it quits?"

Race grinned cheekily. "I don't know about you, Kid, but I was never one to be a quitter."

* * *

**Up Next: **A double song fic! Two songs from the same musical, each detailing a need to go wild now and then. Think you can figure out the song?


	10. Anyone Can Whistle, Everybody Says Don't

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Stephen Sondheim.

* * *

_Maybe you could show me how to let go, lower my guard, learn to be free. _"Anyone Can Whistle" **Anyone Can Whistle**

_Sometimes you have to start small, climbing the tiniest wall. Maybe you're going to fall, but it's better than not starting at all!_ "Everybody Says Don't!" **Anyone Can Whistle**

How the two of them meshed so well, David would never know. Jack was almost his polar opposite in every respect. Where David was proper and structured and book smart, Jack was spunky and reckless and street smart. David liked to follow the rules and avoid trouble; Jack preferred to make his own rules and taunt authority, daring it to do something. When he really thought about their relationship, it occurred to David that the two of them managed to balance each other out. Jack brought out the wild side in him while he kept Jack's wildness at bay.

* * *

"C'mon, Davy!" Jack begged as he walked alongside the boy. "It's a beautiful day! It ain't too hot to go lay on the grass in Central Park. I got enough money to take a day off and I don't want to spend it alone. We could even meet up with some of the other boys and take a cool dip."

David clutched tightly to his school books as though Jack might snatch them from his grasp at any moment. "Jack, I have school."

"So skip a day."

"Skip?" David said as though the very idea was foreign to him. "Jack, I can't skip! I have to keep my grades up."

"Ain't you already a boy genius?" Jack joked. "What'll one day hurt?"

"If Ma finds out I skipped…"

"She won't. Who's gonna tell her? Not me!"

David bit his lip. He couldn't deny that the thought of spending the day doing nothing was very inviting. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had done nothing. His life had become a well-choreographed routine: He woke up, he went to school, he got out and headed straight to the distribution center, he sold until dinner, then he went home to eat and do his homework before getting to bed. His body and mind were weary, wanting for even the smallest of respites.

He looked back and forth between his two choices. To his left was the school house with children already gathering around for the day to start; to his right was Jack with his usual charming grin, his eyes begging David to chuck his books into the nearest pond and have fun for the day.

Was it really that difficult a choice to make?

* * *

"See? That wasn't so hard, now was it?" Jack commented as the duo lay side by side on the grass. David had succumbed to Jack's wishes (though he _hadn't_ chucked his school books in any pond; he had to draw the line somewhere). "This is much better than some stuffy old school room."

"How would you know?" David asked wryly. "You've never even seen the inside of a school!"

If Jack was insulted by the remark, he didn't mention it. "Don't you ever get tired of all that stuff?"

"School?"

"Yeah…all of that prim and proper stuff. Skittery went to school once and he said it was almost worse than being in The Refuge. All those rules and them cranky old ladies who smack your hands with a ruler if you ain't sitting up straight enough for them."

"It's not all that bad. Though, there are some teachers who smack your hands with a ruler." He gently rubbed his knuckles as he remembered the last time that had happened.

Jack frowned. "I don't think I could stand being there with all those rules."

"Rules aren't necessarily bad, Jack. If we didn't have rules, our country would be a mess with people just doing whatever they wanted."

The severity of such a situation was lost on Jack who smiled wistfully at the very thought. "Yeah, that's what we need. People doing just whatever the hell they want."

David glanced at the other boy with a mixture of shock and amusement. "When did you become such an anarchist?"

"What's a…a anarchist?"

"It's someone who doesn't believe in government."

Jack grinned. "Sounds like my kind of people."

As they lay there, watching the clouds drift by, a small family of birds flew in, landing on a nearby tree. The largest of the birds—likely the papa bird—looked down at the boys, tilting it's head as though studying them. Then he emitted a melodic whistle.

"Looks like he's talking to us," Jack commented before returning the whistle to the bird. It replied with another whistle and Jack laughed. "Ever thought you'd be having conversations with birds, Davy? Go on—give him a whistle."

David licked his lips, pursed them, and blew. There was no sound. He tried again, but was met with the same results. "I'm not very good at whistling," he admitted abashedly.

"You can't whistle?" Jack asked with wonder. "I thought _everyone_ could whistle."

"Les and Sarah and my parents can. I just never could," David told him with a shrug. It had never been a big deal to him. After all, life wasn't dependant on whether or not a guy could whistle.

Jack sat up and motioned for David to follow suit. "You know why you can't whistle, Davy?"

He didn't.

"It's because you're too uptight," Jack said matter-of-factly. "To whistle, you've got to just relax all your muscles."

"Jack, I don't think relaxation has anything to do with a person's ability to whistle."

"I'm telling you!" Jack replied. He grabbed David's shoulders and immediately noticed how tense they were. "You need to relax your shoulders."

"How can I relax them when you're squeezing them?"

"Relax," Jack commanded. With a sigh, David relented, feeling his shoulders sag. "Now try to whistle."

David took a deep breath and blew. Nothing. "I told you," he said to Jack. "I just can't whistle. It's got nothing to do with my shoulders."

Jack narrowed his eyes in determination. He was going to get David to whistle properly if it killed him. "I think I've got an idea! Come on!"

"Jack!" David protested as he was pulled to his feet. "Jack, it's not a big deal! Just let it go!"

He couldn't let it go, though. This was about more than just whistling for Jack; he wanted David to understand how to completely let go of things and not constantly care about the consequences of his actions. The boy needed a bit of fun in his life, and Jack was the perfect guy to give it to him.

He pulled him down the path until he saw their destination. It was a medium-sized fountain, the kind people would throw pennies into while making a wish. Water gushed from a spout at the top, raining into the fountain with a soothing sound. "We're gonna make a wish, David."

"What? A wish that I can whistle?"

"That's exactly right!"

David shook his head, pulling his arm from Jack's grasp. "The only money I have is for buy later today. I can't throw it away."

"Oh, we ain't gonna wish with money…"

"We're not?" David asked, eyeing the other boy suspiciously.

With one quick movement, Jack grabbed the boy and tossed him into the water. It wasn't deep, but the water falling from the spout managed to thoroughly soak David. "JACK!" he screeched. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"I thought we needed to cool off!" he proclaimed as he joined David in the fountain. He waded through the calf-high water, kicking and splashing like a child in a rain puddle. "Feels good, huh?"

"No, it feels wet!" David grumbled. "And I don't think we're allowed to be in this!"

"Who's gonna stop us, Davy? What's the harm of us being in here?"

"Jack, it's against the rules!"

"To hell with the rules, then! David, you have to take risks now and then! Weren't we breaking the rules when we went on strike against Pulitzer?"

"That was different."

"No, Davy, it was the same! Don't tell me you didn't get a rush when you was standing there in his office, telling him off to his face, telling him that we'd won! Wasn't that fun?"

David remembered the confrontation with the newspaper owner. It had been a moment of excitement, worry, fear, and accomplishment all rolled into one. As he had spoken, he could feel adrenaline rushing through his veins, likely blocking all common sense; but he hadn't care. It had been one of the proudest moments of his young life.

He shook his head violently, ridding himself of all thoughts about the strike the pride it had given him. "The difference there," he told Jack who was still jumping about in the water, "is that we walked away from there with our extra tenth of a cent. Here, we'll just walk away wet."

Jack hooked his arm around David's shoulders and pulled him in. "But we'll have had fun!"

Before David could even open his mouth to reply, a shrill whistle rang out. "You boys!" a cop bellowed. "What are you doing in there?"

"We was just cooling off in the hot weather, mister!" Jack called back.

"You're not allowed to play in there! Get out immediately or I'll bring you in for disturbing the peace!"

Jack, the metaphorical Id of the duo smiled cheekily, obviously about to retort with a smart ass reply to the copper, momentarily representing the Super Ego of the situation. This caused the Ego, David, to step in and attempt to make peace between them. "It's fine, officer," he said, grabbing Jack's arm in a tight grip, " we understand. We're sorry for the trouble."

"Davy, what're you–"

"Shut up!" he hissed, cutting Jack off mid-sentence. David was in no mood to get arrested. He pulled Jack away angrily. "I told you, that was a bad idea!"

"You need to toughen up. I think all that schooling's made you soft."

"Jack, there is nothing tough about jumping around in a fountain."

"C'mon! I coulda taken that cop! Have I ever let you get in trouble?"

David didn't bother to reply. "I let you talk me into ditching school, but I have to draw the line somewhere! Now I want you to forget about whistling and breaking rules and all of that! Let's just enjoy the day, please?"

Jack blocked David's way, pinning him against a tree with his hands on either side of the other boy's body. "I _was_ enjoying it."

"You enjoy annoying me?" David asked, nervously aware of how close Jack was to him.

"I enjoy being with you. I wasn't trying to annoy you, I just want to see you break outta your shell now and then."

David's breathing was becoming shallow. "Jack…"

The newsboy placed his finger against the lips of his friend, effectively quieting him. "Relax, Davy. Just let go," he whispered before leaning down and pressing his lips against David's.

It wasn't a long, passionate kiss, but a simple meeting of lips. There was no dancing of their tongues or groping, but David felt himself shaken to the core. When, at last, Jack pulled away, their lips peeling apart at an agonizingly slow speed, David looked shyly into the boy's eyes.

He took a deep inhale and released it in the form of a long, soft whistle.

* * *

**Up Next:** Sometimes simply getting through the year is a gratifying reward. Think you can figure out the song?


	11. I'm Still Here

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Stephen Sondheim.

* * *

_First you're another Sloe-eyed vamp; then someone's mother; then you're camp._ "I'm Still Here" **Follies**

Medda sat in her dressing room backstage. Her dressing table was covered with make-up—rogue, lipstick, eye brow pencils, greasepaint—as well as with brushes, hairpieces, gloves, a fan, a feather boa, and various toiletry items. Whatever inch of the table wasn't filled with something—there were very few—was stained from make-up spills.

The door was open, allowing her to hear the raucous commotion from within the club. She wasn't due to go on for another half an hour, following the magician she'd booked for the week. The men here, though, weren't interested in seeing rabbits get pulled out of hats, though. They were here for her and her alone.

That knowledge made her puff out her chest a bit. At least, she puffed it out as far as she could within her tightly bound corset. She wasn't yet dressed, but was, rather, sitting there in her undergarments, looking at herself in the mirror. A single smoldering cigarette dangled from her lips as she dabbed a bit of rouge on the apples of her cheeks. Her hair was still handing down, her fiery red curls falling softly along her bare shoulders.

She studied herself in the mirror. If she weren't her, if she were someone else looking at herself, how old would she think she was? Would she guess fifty, or maybe forty? At times, she thought she could pass for an easy thirty. Those days were becoming limited.

The boys—her newsboys, as she liked to call them—never asked her age. Despite being street rats, they knew enough of polite society to know you must never ask a woman her age. She wondered, though, what they would say if they really knew. What if they knew her, the _real_ her? Not even Jack knew more about Medda's past than that she had once been a lover of his father's. That had been before the death of Jack's mother, Jane. Francis—Jack's father—hadn't been the most loyal of husbands, nor had he been the scoundrel that Snyder had made him out to be. Medda always considered Francis a lost soul desperately trying to find his way in a world that would rather spit in his face than lend a helping hand. It was a scenario she knew all too well.

She took another drag on her cigarette and studied herself once again. Medda Larkson, the Swedish Meadowlark. Any dope could tell that her accent was a fake, that she had probably never even _been_ to Sweden, let alone been born there. Still, they assumed she'd been born into theater, that she'd been the daughter of a thespian couple who'd instilled in her the love and craft of theatrical performance. No one would believe that Medda Larkson was actually Catherine Mulroney, the daughter of a Philadelphia blacksmith. Her adolescent years hadn't been spent playing pretend and practicing her scales at a piano; they were spent running through the mud with her older brothers and sister, helping her mother clean their tiny apartment, and digging through garbage for items to be sold to the local junk man for a nickel.

She began to pull her hair back. A pile of pins sat nearby and slid them in tightly like an expert. When she's finished, there isn't a follicle out of place.

How had it happened? It must have been the circus which had come to town when she was ten. She's saved up her nickels and pennies for weeks and finally had enough to gain admittance (with some extra for an ice cream). What she found inside the huge, ominous tent was a show of such beauty and exhilaration that, once it was over, she remained in her seat, wanting more. There had been clowns who made her laugh, ferocious animals who made her gasp, acrobats and trapeze artists who made her heart stop in pure fright for their safety. Her favorite, though, had been the women who rode the horses. They had come out, standing atop the galloping horses. Their costumes—beautiful gowns of silk and taffeta—blew behind them in the wind. Sequins and rhinestones glittered in the rays of sunlight.

It was then that Medda—or Catherine, rather—had made up her mind. She, too, would one day entertain mass audiences while dressed in stunningly beautiful costumes. She would be beautiful and glamorous and grand. People would adore her and would stand when she entered, applauding before she even opened her mouth.

The road to fame was not a glamorous one, nor was it without its trials and tribulations. After being disowned by her family for refusing to marry the son of a local carpenter, she'd packed up her few belongings and had hopped a train to New York. If there was anywhere in America where a person could make it as an actress, it was New York.

She'd stepped off the train, expecting…well, she hadn't really been sure what to expect. A line of people who immediately recognized her star quality? A producer or agent who saw her and instantly wanted to sign her? A handsome and wealthy man who would fall in love with her on sight and propose? Perhaps she had expected all of the above. But none of that was there. Instead, she'd been treated to the sight of a dilapidated train station with humorless people who didn't care who she was and had no interest in helping her.

Suitcase in hand, she'd managed to find the local boarding house for young women. The building had smelled of mold and looked apt to fall at any given moment, but it was the cheapest place she'd been able to find and couldn't afford much else. So she'd put a big smile on her face and allowed the grim looking spinster who owned the place to led her up to a room already over-flowing with women.

"No smoking, no drinking, and no men," the woman had said. "Pay on time and you'll have no trouble with me."

The other women there had been everything from factory workers to aspiring actresses. Though no one admitted it, Medda had suspected that more than a few of the women had also picked up a few extra dollars here and there by working the street corners.

Never had she felt so out of place.

She remembered all of this as she began dabbing lipstick on her lips. Had anyone actually told her just how hard show business was, she probably would have never tried it. Cattle call auditions, degrading showings in which she was examined like a piece of beef, the leering eyes of producers, wondering just how desperate she was for this job.

The most shocking thing Medda had learned was that she couldn't act. No matter how hard she would practice and how hard she would try, she always sounded wooden and bland when reading lines. Were it not for her knock-out figure—a direct quote from her first boss—and her willingness to do _anything_, she would never have gotten a job.

"The problem, doll, is that you're marketing yourself all wrong." That had been said to her by Henry Mallick, a guy twenty years her senior who had been directing her in a crappy production of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. They were in the middle of a spooning session when he'd said it.

"What's wrong with it?"

"You're going for the innocent ingénue look—all that big eyes and tights chastity belts shit. It's a sin to have tits like yours covered in some virginal white dress!" He had then kissed her breasts before continuing. "You've got to go for more va-va-voom! Do up your face, wear a little something that gives 'em a glimpse of what's underneath." She'd had a feeling he didn't mean show them her personality and inner beauty. "And you've got to change the name."

"My name?" she'd asked. Certainly it hadn't been the most recognizable name in New York, but it had always suited her fine.

"We don't need Irish. Too many damn micks running through the city anyway. You need something with some foreign flavor…something exotic."

She'd found it difficult to be exotic when she was so pale and white. "So what should I change it to?"

"You only got Irish blood in ya?"

She'd nodded. "Well, except for my mama's half-sister. She was Swedish."

Henry's eyes had lit up. "Swedish! It's perfect!"

"What's perfect?"

"Your new persona, doll! You're not the Irish virgin; you're the Swedish milkmaid. Sweet and innocent on the outside, but inside, a flirt who likes to have her fill of men." He'd reached out and grabbed one of her red tresses. "Maybe you should bleach your hair blonde." One glowering look from her had halted the very idea in its tracks. "Okay, no blonde. But Swedish…that's the little spice you need, doll."

Seemingly overnight, Catherine Mulroney had become Medda Larkson. She had thought the name reeked of phoniness, but she couldn't deny that it seemed to do the trick. Suddenly, Medda was being cast in vampish roles, the kind that didn't require her to act so much as they required her to act sexy, a talent for which she had quite a knack.

It was after her marriage to her second husband—a wealthy producer named Winston Babcock who left her much money following the divorce—that Medda came into quite a sum of money. That was also when she acquired a taste for vodka…and rum, and whiskey, and champagne, and any other form of alcohol she could muster up. She also began smoking and experimenting with other drugs that the social scene was dabbling in. Nights of fitful sleeps and dizzy mornings began to take their toll on her mind and body. It got to the point where waking up without vomiting was a blessing in her life.

Slowly—due to both age and the wear and tear her body took from her nights partying and drinking—Medda's looks began to fade. She wasn't ugly by any stretch of the imagination, but she wasn't the young and flirtatious vamp she had been playing for years. It was a fact which didn't register with her until she was one day cast as a mother character to a younger actress.

There was no avoiding it. She was officially passé.

So what did she do? She took the money she'd retained from her divorce and had bought the shittiest club in all of Manhattan. It was a run down little place that people didn't want to bother with. But Medda was beyond that. She knew hard work and what it took to get a place going. She'd worked her magic on Irving Hall and had turned it into a night spot worth visiting.

Now she sat there, looking at the face which once belonged to the daughter of an Irish blacksmith, a daughter who had never dreamed of show business until she was ten and who supposed she would end up married with a hoard of crying babies filling her day. Somehow, though, destiny had changed and she was now an aging vaudeville star, a woman who in her day had entertained quite a few bigwigs in more ways than one. Her looks were going, she knew. It was only a matter of time before the men stopped coming and were on to younger and firmer women to satiate their needs. How long would it take? A month? A year? She didn't know. There was no crystal ball to guide her on this one.

She took each year one day at a time, ready for what troubles it held for her. With the hells she'd been through, she felt she was prepared for anything that should come her way.

Because she'd been there and had seen it all—the troubles and uncertainties of life which hold us hostage—and, dammit, she was still here!

**Up Next:** Sometimes what feels right can be wrong, and vice versa. Think you know the song?


	12. We Do Not Belong Together

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Stephen Sondheim.

* * *

_What made it so right together is what made it all wrong. _"We Do Not Belong Together" **Sunday in the Park with George**

"This ain't right."

Race sighed exasperatedly as he pulled his lips from Spot's neck. He'd been enjoying it so much, the feel of the other boy's surprisingly smooth (albeit dirty) skin as he ran his chapped lips along it. Why did Spot have to go and ruin that?

"Would you stop being such a pansy?" he said bitingly. "No one's looking at us."

The two were occupying an empty storage closet at the bar they frequented. Race would slip the bartender a small sum to let them back there, giving them their privacy. Any moans or groans or shouts of pleasure one might expect to hear during such sexually-fueled meetings were drowned out by the five-piece band the bar employed for entertainment.

It was almost their own little world. Sure, it was small and cramped and smelled like more than one person had taken a piss in there recently, but it was theirs.

Spot pushed Racetrack away and began buttoning up his shirt. His face and neck were almost as red as his suspenders. "Who cares if they ain't looking? Don't make it right!"

"Oh, Christ, not this again!" Race bemoaned.

"Just cause you don't care about getting your head beaten in don't mean I can't, Race. I'm the leader of the Brooklyn newsies! Fella's look up to me! What would they think if they knew that three nights a week I had sex with another boy?"

Race shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets as he leaned back against the door. "Judging by some of their demeanors, they may ask you to give them a go-round, too," he said, only half-joking. Last time he'd visited Spot in Brooklyn he was almost positive that three or four of the Brooklyn guys were giving him the one-over in the most leering of ways. Not that he blamed them; who wouldn't want to do him?

"Oh, you think that's funny, Higgins?"

"I think it's hilarious, Conlon. Almost as hilarious as you, the big, bad Brooklyn leader, whimpering like a little girl every time I so much as touch you."

His sardonic remark was rewarded with a quick pop to his jaw that sent him to the floor. Anyone else in Race's position would have jumped right back up and retaliated, or attempted to, at the very least. He, though, was very much accustomed to Spot's violent outbursts. He just pulled himself up to a sitting position and tenderly touched the side of his face. No doubt there'd be a bruise there by morning. Oh well; all the better to sell with, though he should come up with a good story for the other newsies.

"Temper, temper, Spotty," he said with a clicking of his tongue. "One of these days that'll get you in trouble."

"So will my hanging around with you. There's a lot of guys in Brooklyn who'd love to see me fall. Finding me in this position would give them the power to bring me down."

"What about if they found you in that position I had you in last Friday? You know, with you lying there on your stomach while I was perched there on top of you," Race reminded, giving a nice wiggling of his eyebrows for good measure.

Spot felt his face grow red again, not only from anger, but from recalling that particular moment of pleasure. But it was wrong; he wasn't supposed to feel that way. "You're an ass," he spat.

"I know. That's what makes us so perfect for each other. No one else would want us."

"Speak for yourself, Higgins," he replied as he leaned back against the closed door. "I've gotten my fair share of women and there are more clamoring for me."

Racetrack rolled his eyes. Spot was an attractive boy; almost a pretty boy, some might say (though never to his face). His looks got him admiring glances from girls here and there, but he wasn't quite the ladies' man he boasted to be. His short stature and scrawny build wasn't what most girls wanted; they preferred the muscular and often brainless men who worked below Spot. It infuriated him, Race knew. Not that Spot was interested in the women, but it was the principal of the matter; he had a reputation to uphold.

"I could replace you like that," Spot continued, snapping to emphasis his point.

"So why haven't you?"

The words hung in the air as the two boys sat silently in the closet. Race glanced over at his companion, waiting for an answer. Spot, though, had his eyes glued to the floor. His jaw was working up and down, a sure sign that he felt uncomfortable in his current situation.

Racetrack nudged him with his foot, but Spot just pulled away. "Guess you don't have an answer for that one, huh?"

"What makes you say we're perfect for each other?" The question was asked in a hushed tone.

"Like I said, no one else would put up with us. I'm an ass, like you so very well said, and you're short-tempered. We almost balance each other out, don't you think?"

"No, I don't think," Spot said. "And I don't think we're perfect for each other. We'd be horrible for each other."

"Why?" Race scoffed. "What, because neither of us is a girl? Is that it?"

"You know damn well it is and that I'm right!"

Now it was Racetrack's turn to get angry. "I know that you're a little pansy ass who's too chicken shit to see this thing out, even though you know that what we've got going is a good thing and that you'll probably never have anything so good in your life!" He shot to his feet, a snarl gracing his lips. "Funny that you're so worried about keeping up your appearance as a tough guy, but you don't even have the guts to stand up for something you obviously want!"

"Don't flatter yourself, Higgins. You weren't _that_ great."

"Yet you kept coming back, huh? Wanted more and more, right?"

Spot turned away, arms akimbo. "You read too much into things. Just cause I like sex doesn't mean I like you. It'd be the same no matter who it was."

"Then you may as well replace me with a broomstick! It'll have the same effect, right?"

At that, Spot lunged at him, knocking them both to the ground. It was a scuffle with plenty of blindly thrown punches, hair pulls, and kicking as each tried to get the upper hand. Race managed to shove Spot off of him and roll over on top. He tried to get a hold on Spot's flailing arms to pin them down, but one of them struck him across the face, stunning momentarily. Spot took advantage of Race's disorientation and shoved him back as he sat up.

But Race wasn't down for long. He jumped back up and encircled his arms around Spot's waist, pulling him back. Together, they hit the wall, Racetrack first and Spot in front of him, still struggling to escape Race's grasp. "Get your paws off me!"

He tightened his grip. "Not 'til you calm the fuck down!"

"I'll calm down when you let me go!"

From there ensued another few minutes of struggling and shouting, but slowly they both began to lose steam. Soon, they were both panting and sweating as Race leaned back against the door and Spot leaned back against Race. Though his grip had loosened considerably, Spot made no attempts to escape him now. Race gently moved his hands to the other boy's hips and rested his chin atop his shoulder. His warm breath brushed against Spot's skin, arousing him not matter how hard he tried to squelch it.

This wasn't how it was supposed to work.

"I'm going to walk out that door," Spot told Racetrack matter-of-factly. "I'll walk out and then we'll return to the way things used to be."

"You mean us giving each other looks and imagining what it would be like to have sex without ever actually doing anything?"

"I mean us just being newsies and occasional poker buddies and nothing more to each other. I'll go back to the Brooklyn lodging house and you can head back to Manhattan. Then we'll forget about this, about us and everything we did."

"I don't want to forget about it."

"Too bad. Once I walk through that door, that's it. I'm not looking back."

"What are you really so afraid of, Spot?"

"I ain't afraid of nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Conlon. I've played poker with you enough times to know your tell. Something's got you freaked and it's only fair that I know."

Spot closed his eyes. In a moment of weakness, he allowed his body to lean back against Race's. Their cheeks were pressed together, their breathing nearly becoming one. Spot loved it but hated it. Why did love have to be so complicated? Why couldn't he be attracted to the ones he was supposed to be attracted to?

"It could never work, Race. This whole thing, us meeting up here for a quick screw…it'll have to end eventually. Why not end it now before anyone gets hurt?"

Racetrack was silent for a moment. "So that's what you're afraid of, huh? The tough leader can't take a little heartbreak. Never thought that'd be your weakness."

"It's not a weakness," Spot protested, though he sounded uncertain. "I don't want to bother with something I know won't stick." He gently began pulling Race's hands from his hips. "Let's just leave things be."

"Dammit, Spot!" Racetrack wasn't about to let this thing go without a fight. "I told you, we're perfect for each other! Are you gonna deny that?"

"No," Spot said with a shake of his head, "you're right about that. We really are perfect for each other. But maybe that's the problem."

"How could that be a problem?" Race bellowed in a harsher tone than he'd intended.

"I don't know! Don't expect me to explain this crap! But being perfect for each other isn't everything! And it just can't work for us! It can't and it won't!" He shoved his hands into his pocket, head ducked down. "That's just something we have to accept."

"Who says we have to accept it?"

"Me…everyone. It's just one of those facts of life."

"Only if you let it be."

"No," Spot disagreed, "it'll be that way no matter what. Better get used to it, Higgins. Might get yourself into some trouble if you don't."

He reached out and turned the doorknob, expecting Racetrack to call out, to stop him from leaving. But he remained silent. Spot pushed the door open, blinking a bit as the bright light poured in. The bar was still hopping with action and the music and chatter streamed in.

Spot almost regretted what he knew he had to do. "I know it's gonna be awkward for a while between us…maybe it's always gonna be. I won't blame you if you avoid me."

"You're really gonna do this," Race said, slightly incredulously. "You're just gonna walk away from this, pretend like it never happened?" Spot said nothing. Race snorted. "Well fine. Fucking fine! I wouldn't want to be with some pansy anyway! So go! Just fucking go already!"

"I will!" Spot snarled in reply. "The last thing I need in my life is some ass like you!" He stormed out, making a point to slam the door loudly behind him.

Race didn't try to run after him; he didn't even say anything. He leaned back against the wall and slid down to a sitting position, pulling his knees up with his feet planted firmly on the floor. If this was a ploy by Spot to make Racetrack run after him, he was wasting his time. Race had far too much pride to run after anyone, least of all a skinny little punk like Spot.

Unfortunately, Spot also had his pride and he wasn't about to go back, not after that impassionate speech he'd just given. He just kept walking, not even aware of his surroundings. Not once did he look back.

Maybe that was the problem. They were a little _too_ perfect for each other, right down to their damned pride.

* * *

**Up Next:** How difficult to be so near and still so far from the one you love. Think you know the song?


	13. When?

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Stephen Sondheim.

* * *

_When will we ever be together? When is the time? Where is the place? When can I once again touch your face?_ "When" **Evening Primrose**

David walked by the distribution center as he did every morning on his way to school. It was out of his way, but he didn't care. Because he knew that it was the best way to ensure that they saw each other at least once a day. Clutching his books to his side, he would lead Les past the Horace Greeley statue, slowing his pace as they caught sight of the other newsies. Les, of course, was always pleased at the chance to catch up with old friends, especially Jack. It never took long for the ten-year-old ball of energy to take off toward the line, yelling out Jack's name. David, of course, would feign frustration, but in actuality, his little brother was doing just what he'd wanted him to.

That day was no different. "Jack! Hey, Jack!" he shouted as he sprinted toward the line of newsies.

"Les!" David groaned as he followed behind. "Come on, Les! We've got to get to school!"

"We've got time," was Les' predictable response.

David rolled his eyes, but didn't press the issue. They _did_ have time, of course. David always gave himself plenty of time to get to school. Every second Les spent talking to Jack, David spent studying his favorite subject.

"Hey, Davy," Mush greeted shyly.

"Hey, Mush."

David wasn't sure what it was about the curly-haired boy that made him feel as he did, but anytime he so much as looked at Mush he felt a tingling in his bones. When they touched, it shot electricity through his body. "How's the selling been?"

"Slow," Mush said with a face. "How's school?"

"Fine," David said with a shrug. "We're learning about Leonardo da Vinci right now."

Mush thought for a moment. "The painter, right?"

A proud smile spread across David's face. "That's right. He painted the _Mona Lisa_. But he was also an architect, a writer, an inventor and a scientist. He was very interested in man's ability to fly and put together a few contraptions, but none of them were really sensible," he admitted. "He also studied anatomy."

"What'd that?" Mush asked, furrowing his brow.

"Anatomy," he repeated. "It's the study of the human body. Like bones and muscles and those sorts of things."

Mush didn't quite see how studying bodies could be interested, but he smiled anyway. He liked talking with David, especially when David talked about school. Mush hadn't had the chance to go to school and he sometimes wished he could learn the things those kids did. Might help him get a better job some day. No shop was going to hire someone who could barely add and subtract.

"Sounds neat, Davy," he said. "Wish I could go to school, even just one day. But I can't afford to skip selling for the morning. That's when I pull in the most money. Besides, I don't think the school would want a street rat sitting in. I'd probably just end up looking stupid," he commented, looking down at his shoes awkwardly.

"You're not stupid," David assured him. "Sometimes I think you guys are smarter than me."

"Yeah, right," Mush said cynically, though he kept himself upbeat. "Well, do you think you could maybe teach me some of the stuff you learn sometime?"

Spend time alone with Mush, teaching him? David felt like he was in heaven. "Yes," he managed to spit out. "Yes, of course! I'd love to teach you!"

Mush's face split into a jubilant smile. "Really? When?"

Whenever. Today. Right now. "I get out of school around three," he offered, shushing the voices in his head. "We can meet then."

"Afternoon edition comes out at about one. I'll probably be selling down on Bowery St., right near the flower store. The ladies there always buy from me," he admitted with a puff of pride in his chest.

"Great!" David said, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. "I'll meet you over there then?"

"David," Les whined. "Are you just gonna stay out here all day?" It was the first time Les had been the one to pull David away from the distribution center and toward school, rather than the other way around.

"I'll see you later, Davy," Mush agreed. He watched David return to Les and enviously watched as the two walked together away from Newspaper Row and off to school.

David couldn't be sure how he had gotten through the school day at all, thinking as he was about being with Mush that afternoon. The day had never seemed to drag on as it did that day, nor had lessons seemed so trivial and meaningless. It was as though seeing Mush superceded anything else in the world.

Les was walking home with his own friends, so David didn't have to waste time dropping him off before running off to meet Mush. He shot out of the school building like a ball from a cannon, his books tightly strapped together with a belt, bouncing alongside him. He knew his parents wouldn't think anything of it if he wasn't home right after school, but they would expect him to be home for supper. That allowed him three or four hours before his mother would crossly wonder why he was dillydallying.

He had a good idea where Mush might be. There was a little patch of Bowery St. in which was nestled a flower shop, clothing and fabric shop, and a doll store. It was a popular area with older society ladies and a place guaranteed to earn a newsboy a nice amount of customers.

Sure enough, he found Mush standing across the street from the flower shop with a small bundle of papers under his arm. A lady cooed over him before buying a paper and he kept that boyish grin plastered on his face. It wasn't uncommon for Mush to attract women, even upper class women. He was a good looking boy with dimples that marked his face when he smiled. More than that, it was his sweet, gentlemanly disposition that hooked them and reeled them in. It was also what had hooked David.

As he stood off to the side, surreptitiously watching, it struck David that it seemed all he ever did was watch. He sat with the boys in one of the local diners and watched Mush joke with Blink and Racetrack. He sold during the summer and on the odd weekend and watched Mush charm the passing women into buying his papers. He went to Irving Hall and watched Mush sit in his seat, completely enraptured by the performers onstage. He always watched, but never touched. His fingers itched to feel that skin beneath them.

"Hey, Davy!" Mush had finally caught sight of David, loitering on the other side of the street. He beckoned him over with a friendly wave.

Shyly, David made his way over, suddenly holding his books in front of his chest like a shield. He couldn't even begin to form a coherent sentence. "Um…hi…" he managed to muster up.

Suddenly, a ball of blond energy bound over toward them, nearly tackling Mush to the ground. "Mush!" Blink greeted, giving his friend a playful shove. "You coming with us to Miller's Pub?"

Miller's Pub was one of the restaurants frequented by the newsboys. It served decent and, more importantly, _cheap_ food and the owners tended to look the other way when the boys stuffed their pockets with leftovers.

David frowned. He had assumed the lesson would be between him and Mush alone. What good was it if they were surrounded by all the rest of the newsies? He was tired of just looking; he wanted the chance to be alone with Mush.

"Nah," Mush declined politely. "Davy's gonna show me some of the stuff he's been learning in school. 'Sides, last time I ate at Miller's, I had a stomach ache for almost a week. You guys go on ahead; I'll meet you later at the lodging house."

"You don't have to," David said as he watched Blink walk off (admittedly with a great deal of relief). "It's just school work. You'll probably be bored."

"No," Mush insisted, "I really want to learn."

David was dubious. "It's funny," he said as they walked off in the opposite direction."

"What's that?"

"Most of the guys in my class wish they could spend the day out of school and you wish you could spend it in school."

"What do you wish?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes I like school. It can be fun. But sometimes I wish I had the freedom you guys have."

"Not much freedom," Mush told him wryly.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing, Davy. Now come on," he said, his eyes bright and his smile dimpled, "I know just the place where we can go to have all the privacy we need." He didn't even see David's cheeks grow red.

The boys weaved in and out of people along the busy street. The summer sky was still bright and the sun still high as David followed Mush to his secret spot. "It's just this place right here," he said, leading David into an alley between two dirty tenements. Above them, clothes lines were strung across windows with various pieces of clothing hanging to dry. The windows were closed, though, and covered with enough dirt and grime that no one could see in or out. "It's kinda dirty, I know, but the people here never hassle me or nothing."

"Or anything," David corrected.

"What?"

David gave a half-grin. "I guess we'll start with grammar."

He looked around for a clean place to sit, but found none. _Ma's gonna scold me for getting my good pants dirty_, he thought as he slid to the ground. Mush joined him and David felt his heart skip a beat. It was worth the scolding.

They spent the next couple of hours with David's school books between them. David began with grammar and spelling, a more difficult subject for than he'd expected. His books were for students with a higher reading level, which Mush, unfortunately, was not. He knew his alphabet, of course, and could make out basic words, but they would have been better off starting with one of Les' books.

Still, David remained patient and Mush determined as they worked their way through words with more than one syllable (polysyllabic, David had called them) and words with silent letters (why bother having the letter there at all?). Mush didn't understand how a 'p' and an 'h' could sound like an 'f' or why "walk" had an 'l' in it, but he didn't question David. In fact, he regarded the other boy with awe, like some sort of wonder of the world.

Math was similarly foreign to Mush, especially things like multiplication and division. "But why would I ever need to know what three times ten is?" Mush asked "Or what a hundred divided by two is?"

David didn't balk at the question. "Well, let's say you're able to sell your papers for three cents each day instead of one cent." Mush looked pleased at the very prospect. "If you bought one hundred papers that day for half a cent each, how much did you pay for them?"

"Fifty cents." That was an easy question.

"Exactly. One hundred divided by two is fifty. You divide it by two because two halves make one whole. Does that make sense?"

"Sort of."

"So you go and sell them for three cents each."

"How about for five cents?"

"Okay," David agreed, "five cents each. How much money should you have at the end of the day?"

"Five hundred cents?"

"Exactly! Well, five dollars, but it's all the same. Now imagine if you buy just, uh, thirty-two papers."

"Why would I only buy thirty-two?"

"That's all they have left. So you've got thirty-two papers and you sell each for seven cents. How much money will you have?"

That one was a bit harder. Anyone knew that one hundred times five was five hundred. This involved numbers that weren't quite so round and even. "Uh, seven times two…is fourteen…"

"So you write the four and carry the one over," David said, writing it to show Mush.

"Then seven times three is, uh…" He took a second to count it out and David didn't comment on it. "Twenty-one?"

"Right. But you add the extra one to that. So what number to you have?"

Mush put the numbers together. "Two two four. Two hundred and twenty four."

"That's right." Mush beamed with pride. "See? You _can_ do math. It's really not so scary."

"Nah, I think you're just a great teacher," Mush replied humbly. "The other guys have tried to teach me this stuff, but they never did it so good. I mean, Race tried to teach me about math and numbers, but he always related it to the odds at the tracks. It just got confusing. When you teach me it, makes sense. You should be a teacher when you grow up, Davy."

"Want to move on to science?" David asked, changing the subject. Mush's words were making him feel warm inside. "It's anatomy, like I was talking about this morning."

Mush nodded enthusiastically and scooted closer to look at the pictures. Inside of the book were terms and names of body parts, explanations of what each part's job was within the body. How each did its job to make the human body function like a machine. They looked at drawings of bones and hands and legs and arms and eyes and mouths. The mouths, David noticed, were especially intriguing to Mush.

"What's the difference between the heart and the brain?"

David looked at Mush, uncertain where the question had come from. "Well, the heart is in your chest and it pumps blood, while the brain is in your head and sends signals to the rest of your body."

"Oh," he replied with a tinge of disappointment in his voice, "it's just that everybody always talks about following their heart instead of their brains. I thought it meant something."

"That usually means they're making their decision based off a feeling instead of an educated idea," David explained with a small smile. "Not really scientific, I guess."

"Which do you follow?"

Another strange question. "I don't know…I suppose both, depending on the situation. Usually my brain…sometimes my heart."

"Like the strike?"

"Yeah…yeah, that was a pretty dumb thing for me to do, so I had to have been following my heart."

Mush leaned back against the wall. "I sometimes want to follow my heart. But I'm afraid it's wrong."

"That's possible."

There was silence between them. The sky was beginning to dim, David noticed.

"Has your heart ever been wrong, Davy?"

David found that he couldn't answer.

"My heart's been telling me something for a while now."

"What's that, Mush?"

"About you." He turned and looked at David, not a trace of sarcasm or joking in his face. "I can't tell the other guys, but when we're in line, waiting for our papes, I'm mostly hoping you'll come by."

David's heart leapt in his chest, but he kept his demeanor cool. "I'm glad. I like seeing you, too."

Then, shyly, like a young child approaching a new person, Mush bobbed his head down toward David's. Their lips met for only a moment in the softest of kisses and then Mush pulled back, uncertain.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" David asked, still slightly dazed.

"I should have asked."

"You didn't have to ask."

The two of them sat still, their hearts beating violently within their chests. The hustle and bustle of New York was around them, but they paid it no mind. Their focus was on the moment, on each other.

David cleared his throat; the first to break the beautiful silence. "I should get home. My mom is probably already wondering where I am."

Mush stood with him. "Can we do this again?" He didn't emphasize what he meant by "this," but David could tell he wasn't' talking about the teaching. "I'd like to see you again, Davy. That is…uh…if _you_ want to."

David collected his books and felt a small grin spread over his face. "Just tell me when."

* * *

**AN:** *winces* It's been a while, huh? Sorry! This fic is by no means abandoned! We've still got five more chapters to go!

**Up Next: **Are kids on the street a product of society or poor upbringing? Or have they only themselves to blame? Think you know the song?


	14. Gee, Officer Krupke

**Disclaimer**: _Newsies_ is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Leonard Bernstein and Stephen Sondheim.

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_This boy don't need a job, he needs a year in the pen! It ain't just a question of misunderstood; deep down inside him, he's no good!_ "Gee, Officer Krupke" **West Side Story**

"Get out of here, ya punks!"

The harsh diatribe from the police officer on the corner came as no surprise to the group of newsies who were loitering on the street, swapping cigarettes and stories, and knocking back a few beers that Snitch and Itey had nabbed from a crate behind one of the bars. The beers were warm, especially on that humid summer night, but they couldn't be bothered to care.

"We got as much right to be here as anyone," Skittery retorted.

"Right?" the police officer repeated with a disbelieving snort. "You ain't got no rights; you're just some street punks, causing trouble."

"What trouble are we causing, Officer…Krupke?" Race asked, peering at the man's badge. "Far as I can see, we're just sitting here, enjoy each other's company, and taking in the sights of New York."

That last bit was overkill. The only sights they were taking in were those of drunkards stumbling out of the local bars and the tired horses walking by with their carriages, leaving disgusting trails of feces in their wake. Even the ladies of the night were particularly unattractive that evening, their faces smeared with make-up in hopes that it, along with the dark cover of the night, might hide their many imperfections.

No, their reasons for being there was purely that they had no place else to go. It was too early to turn in for the night, but lots of their normal spots had closed for the night. So they'd decided to settle right there, where they had just enough light from the bars to

See themselves and each other. But they didn't dare go into the bars; then they'd be expected to actually buy something. This way, they got the booze without giving up their hard-earned money.

Unfortunately, they hadn't counted on the bulls being around there.

"You're trouble," Officer Krupke proclaimed, "I can see if all over your faces."

"What? These faces?" Dutchy asked, giving the most innocent face he could muster. "We're perfect angels, I swear on my mother's grave."

Officer Krupke looked them over, his nose wrinkling in repulsion. "Where'd you get those beers?"

Jack nearly choked on his at that question. "W-why do you ask?" he managed to sputter out between his coughs.

"We bought them," Blink said. "Ain't a crime, is it?"

"Buy them? From there?" he asked, pointing to one establishments across the street.

"Uh, yeah," Jack said uncertainly.

"That's funny, because the last time I stepped in there they wasn't serving no beer."

"So what you're saying is that you've been drinking on the job, Officer?" Snitch asked impishly.

Krupke held his nightstick out and waved it angrily. "I said nothing of the sort, you filthy street rat! Now you kids either clear out of here or I'll see to it you're all thrown into the Refuge!"

The newsies all looked to Jack for their next move. He was the unofficial leader of their motley group and they did what he said they did. Should they stick it to the bull and stay put, effectively calling his bluff? Or did they play it safe and take their little party to another area?

Jack nodded. "Come on, fellas. I don't particularly care for the smell around these parts, anyway."

"Yeah," Mush agreed, looking at the horse crap littering the streets, "once them horses come through, you can just forget about it."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about that stuff, Mush. There's a worse odor offending my nose right now," he said with a pointed smirk in Krupke's direction.

The policeman's face turned bright red, though the boys didn't see that in the dark. They did, however, see his body shake in anger and they most certainly heard the insults he spewed at them next. "You're a drain on society, you sniveling brats! You was born no good, you grew up no good, and you'll die no good. And all the while, you'll suck the world dry for the rest of us honest folk!"

"Hey!" Skittery retorted. "We can't help what society made us! I mean, we can't all kiss enough ass to become policemen. Some of us care too much about what our lips touch."

It was the last insult slung in the argument. Officer Krupke wanted to continue, but he hadn't anything to say that he hadn't already said, so he left it alone, hoping the newsies wouldn't notice his silence. They did, though, and chalked it up as a victory in their favor.

That was good. It wasn't too often they had victories.

"Can you believe that guy?" Skittery asked incredulously. Though they had won the fight, Krupke's words had obviously struck a nerve in him and he couldn't quite let it go. "A drain on society? Us? Ha! Where would society be if they didn't have us to hate? They enjoy being able to blame all the problems on us. If they couldn't, they'd all have to realize that their crappy lives are their own faults. But nope, as long as they've got us no-good street rats, they never have to face their own problems."

"Jeez, Skitts, got a stick up your ass or something?" Racetrack asked as he struck a match to light his cigar.

"Don't it bother you, Race? Hearing a guy like that talk down to guys like us?"

Racetrack shrugged. "Sure, but so what? Lots of thing bother me." He took a deep drag on his cigar and let the smoke out in a slow exhale. "Let the bull think what he wants; ain't like his opinion matters."

"Ain't just him, though," Jack chimed in. "Seems every snot-nosed, hoity-toity type looks at us and thinks the worse. We're guilty 'til proven innocent…and even then, we're guilty! At least, in the eyes of the judges."

"Oh, I swear your honor," Blink said playfully. He crossed himself and gave the "judge" his most pitiful face. "On me mother's life I swear, I never meant to be a drain on society! It ain't my fault I turned out this way!"

Jack cuffed him on the back of the head, smoothly falling into the role of the judge. "Don't give me none of your excuses, boy."

"But it's the truth, your honor. My Pa left my Ma before I was born. How was I supposed to grow into any sort of upright citizen without a good role model in my life?"

"Yeah!" Itey exclaimed. "We're just products of our upbringing!"

The group burst into raucous laughter and heartily slapped each other on the backs in response to that. Granted, not all of them had been victims of poor parenting, but it made for a convenient story, one that no one would doubt

"Then get off your lazy bum and get some work," Jack bellowed, shoving Blink into the throng of boys. "About time you start earning your keep, instead of taking handouts from the American government."

"Sorry, your honor," Blink replied contritely. "I know that the money you give me to eat cuts into the bundle you've got saved up for your mistresses and foreign cigars. I'll get me a swell job; I can be a newsie and earn money for food."

"A newsie?" Skittery asked snidely, joining in on the game. "Bah! Those street rats are even more a drain than anyone. Making noise and polluting the streets. You should go out and get a respectable job, sonny. Be a shopkeeper or a writer or a police officer."

"But, sir, I ain't had no schooling. No one wants to hire some uneducated kid who can barely write his own name, let alone do simple math."

Skittery rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Excuses, excuses! That's all I ever hear from you kids! No wonder your life is in the slums. Can't even own up to your own pitiful failures; always having to blame someone else."

Blink furrowed his brow. "So what you're saying, sir, is that if I don't get a job, I'm a bum, but if I get a job you don't approve of…I'm still a bum?"

"What's your point, punk?"

"Seems like a 'damned if you do, damned if you don't' kinda situation, huh?"

Skittery smacked him on the back of his head. "Don't use none of your filthy language around me, sonny!"

The other newsies erupted into bouts of laughter at that, giving Skittery hearty pats on the back and each other gentle jabs in the ribs.

"That's a good one, Skitts!" Snitch exclaimed, slinging his arm around his friend's shoulders. "Them bulls got sailor's mouths, but they get on us for just saying 'hell'!"

"Yeah!" Swifty added. "You really got it in for that Krupke guy, don't you?"

Skittery's good-natured smiled began to wane. The bulls. Always on his case. Always on all their cases. Always watching. Most of them just as crooked as the guys they spend so much time putting away. Hell, half of them judged you the minute they saw you, immediately deciding whether you were good or bad, whether you'd be a success or a failure. A kid couldn't set foot on the street without one of the bulls giving him the evil eye.

But for Skittery, it was more than that. He'd seen just how corrupt the government could be. His mother and father had worked as butler and maid for a government official when they all lived in upstate New York. The man's name had been Aarons and he'd begun his career as a lowly police officer before moving himself up the corporate ladder, one rung at a time, until he was finally named head of the department.

Skittery had attended school then, but he would hurry home after and help his parents with their daily chores. It was there that he had learned about bribing, about the way men bought themselves into office. He had seen Mr. Aarons do wrong because it brought in more bucks. He had seen the way in which Mr. Aarons had brushed off the lower class, like lint to be plucked from his jacket and discarded.

When a valuable became lost, they were always the first ones suspected. When Mr. Aarons couldn't find his silver cufflinks, he had immediately blamed Skittery, accusing him of stealing them to sell for booze and other illicit activities. No amount of denial on Skittery's part could convince him otherwise and he'd smacked the boy across the face for daring to lie.

When the cufflinks were later found in Mr. Aaron's travel case, there was no apology to Skittery, no acknowledgement that he'd been wrong in his hasty claims. It didn't matter whether or not Skittery—or anyone else—had actually done it; what mattered was that they were beneath him and, therefore, deserving of his scorn.

Since then, Skittery had developed a hard outer shell when it came to politicians or government workers or cops. Anyone who held the power over his life.

"He's a no-good bum," Skittery said with a shrug. "Why shouldn't I have it in for him?"

A strong wind blew by the group, forcing them all to tighten their thin coats around their bodies. A small shiver ran through the crowd of newsies as they were chilled to their very cores. It was getting late and the darker the night the cooler the air; their threadbare clothing wasn't made for that kind of weather.

"Let's get back to the lodging house," Boots suggested, tucking his hands into his pockets. Everyone else nodded their agreement.

"At this rate, we'll turn into icicles," Racetrack grumbled before snuffing out his cigar.

As the group began toward the lodging house, Skittery stayed in his place. His eyes were trained on the shadows from which they had juts recently emerged.

"You coming, Skitts?" Crutchy asked as he hobbled behind the others.

"Yeah…yeah, I'll be there," he said softly. "I just need to take care of one other thing first."

After they were gone, Skittery popped out a cigarette and lit it up. With the smoldering stick dangling from his lips, he walked back toward the street where they'd had their unfortunate run-in with the law. He sucked in the sweet tobacco, letting it warm him inside and out.

Officer Krupke was still there, working his beat. He walked along the street, offering an appraising eye to a few of the women passing by, and all the while twirling his nightstick in his hand. Skittery stood in the shadows for a few moments, just watching the man. Every drop of anger, every memory of abuse and humiliation at the hand of his former employer, ran through his body as his cigarette smoldered.

Officer Krupke turned around and caught sight of a dark figure, the tip of the cigarette glowing amid the shadows. "You!" he called gruffly. "What are you up to?"

Skittery stepped out and into the dim light of the establishments across the way. He didn't know if Krupke recognized him as one of the boys he'd just shooed away, and he didn't care. He threw the dying cigarette to the ground and stomped on it, exhaling the last of the smoke into the cool night air.

"Hey, Officer Krupke!" he called. He then held up his hand, his middle finger prominently displayed.

And it felt so damn good!

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**Up Next:** A one-shot dedicated to attractive ladies. Think you know the song? Here's a hint: it's not Pretty Women (though the title is close to that!)


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